A Hard Pill To Swallow
by applejacks0808
Summary: "Honestly Sherlock, I wish you could understand how I feel… understand just how much your words and behavior pain me."- Molly Hooper is fed up with the way Sherlock Holmes treats her. What happens when he gets a taste of his own medicine? Hint: He doesn't like it. [Slow-burn Sherlolly... maybe]
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Back with a new story! Everyone has been really supportive of my other stories. Hope you all like this one too!**

**Sadly I do not own Sherlock, that honor belongs to ACD and Mofftiss. Nor is this for profit, but let me tell you if it was... ooh I'd be one happy girl! :)**

* * *

**"G****ET**** THE HELL OUT OF HERE!"** Molly Hooper roared as she hurled a beaker against the wall, just barely missing Sherlock Holmes. They had been through this- the arguing, not the violence- many, many times before; much more frequently as of late. But this time, clearly he had gone too far.

* * *

**_The day before…_**

It all began when Sherlock was asked for help in finding and returning a stolen diamond bracelet to its rightful owner. Admittedly it was not one of his most exciting cases, however this case offered an obscene payoff, the opportunity to attend a masquerade ball, and a means to stay occupied. The prospect of going to this ball roused him (he did enjoy dancing), unfortunately this would require a date. His good friend and constant companion John Watson had outlined the parameters in which he would leave his family to go crime solving, and unfortunately for Sherlock, that list did not include ballroom dancing. Enter: Molly Hooper.

When he broached the subject to her, she was completely ecstatic; she threw her arms around his neck while whispering a litany of "yes-es" into his ear. The fact that he _'forgot'_ to mention that this was all for a case was telling. The fact that he chose to ignore the flutter in his chest while she was in his arms, was even more telling.

Later that evening he picked up the transformed pathologist. She wore a black ball gown with lace detail and subtle gold embellishments, a feathered head piece, and a lace mask that revealed a pair of smoky brown eyes. In a word, she looked stunning, and in an attempt to be a gracious date, he let her know.

"Molly, you look absolutely lovely."

Molly didn't respond, but the smile she offered instead said that she was pleased with his complement. When the two arrived, Sherlock wasted little time before escorting her to the dance floor. All eyes were on the pair as they twirled and swayed in perfect unison with the music. Several dances later, Sherlock and Molly retreated to a dark corner where they drank their champagne and busied themselves with intimate, flirtatious conversation. Just as he tucked a fallen strand of hair behind her ear, an elegant woman approached them. "Mr. Holmes, there you are!"

Sherlock turned to face the intruder of their _private moment_ and found himself face to face with Melody Pritchard, the woman that hired him. "I have to say," she said haughtily, "I didn't think I'd find you enjoying yourself. I was led to believe that when you were on a case, you forsook everything else until it was solved." When Mrs. Pritchard said this, Sherlock could feel Molly stiffen underneath his palm, which was comfortably resting on her lower back.

"Mrs. Pritchard, I have solved you case. In fact I had my suspicions before I arrived, which were confirmed as soon as I saw you." Sherlock said, matching her haughtiness in return. "Me?" Mrs. Pritchard asked indignantly.

What followed next was a blur of deductions and embarrassing accusations, and by the end of it, a small crowd had gathered to hear the startling conclusion. Needless to say, the party ended shortly after. Caught up in the excitement of it all Sherlock failed to notice how upset Molly was, that is- until they were alone in the cab.

"Ha! Wasn't that brilliant Molly? I don't know why she believed she could get one over me… Perhaps she is stupid? Oh I do love the stupid ones! They are begging to be caught..." Molly "hmm-ed" in response, and continued to gaze out the window. The cab turned onto Molly's street and slowed down. When Sherlock made a move to follow her out of the taxi, she finally spoke up. "What are you doing?"

"Well it's late and I don't feel like trekking all the way back to Baker St. I thought I could stay here tonight. We can order take-out. Chinese?"

"No Sherlock, I don't think that's a good idea. You should go." Molly answered through gritted teeth.

Very little ever escaped him, but as to why Molly appeared to be mad, he did not know. "Are you upset? I thought we had a good time?" he asked innocently.

Lowering her voice to a whisper- a menacing whisper- she glared down at the man who was still in the cab. "Oh you thought we had a good time? You mean on the **_case_**, right?" Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. "No, I did not have a good time on the **_case_**," she spat the last word out. Before he could respond, the cab door slammed in his face. The silence was eventually broken by the cabbie, who made the awe-inspiring observation: "Looks like your lady is mad, mate."

Sherlock wisely decided to give Molly the night to cool off, and waited until beginning of her shift to talk to her. He found her in the lab and immediately went into deduction mode. "You're angry because you thought last night was a date." It was neither a question nor a guess, simply a statement. Without looking up from her work, Molly huffed. "You think?" she bit out sarcastically.

Sherlock ignored the tension. "What I don't understand is why you are mad at me. You were the one who misinterpreted the situation. Why you would think that I'd ask you on a date is completely ridiculous!"

This was roughly the moment when a glass beaker flew right by his face.

* * *

Molly was livid. He knew what he had to do, as this wasn't his first time setting her off. Sherlock would apologize, give her a kiss (she seemed to like it when he kissed her forehead), and then bring her coffee (although this time maybe he would bring her lunch instead). He was no stranger to this little dance; so what if he had to act a little sentimental? If it meant getting Molly to work with him again, it was all worth it.

When it looked like he had no intention of leaving, she reached out to get another beaker to throw. As she kept her eyes on the man who was slowly approaching her, she failed to notice the broken shards that surrounded the work bench and cut herself. "Shit!" Molly cursed as crimson stained her white, pristine lab coat. Looking at her wound that extended from her palm to her wrist, she decided her first action should be removing the debris that was embedded. She struggled for few moments (as the cut was on her dominant hand) while she gathered first-aid medical supplies.

Sherlock stood idly by and watched as she scurried around the lab, before the immense guilt struck him. He walked towards Molly with worry etched on his face, and took her injured hand in his. Molly stared at their joined hands, upset at the intimacy of his touch and even more upset that she needed his help. She sighed and turned her palm over to give him a better look. He gently tended to her, disinfected her cut, and bandaged it without saying a word. When he was finally done he continued to hold her hand, tenderly brushing his fingers on her wrist, and conveniently lingered over her pulse.

Molly was fully aware of what he was doing. He always did it this: took her pulse, smirk at her when it became elevated, and move in to kiss her cheek (sometimes the forehead, which she secretly loved). And though it always did get some sort of reaction from her, she hated him for doing so. It was yet another manipulative tactic. Well if things were to ever change, she would need to be much stronger.

She pulled her hand free from his grasp. "Stop it Sherlock. Stop manipulating me and abusing my feelings for you… You **_use_** me, all the time. And that is partly my fault, for letting you get away with it. But I can't do this anymore!"

Sherlock took a step back, completely aghast. "What do you mean I '**_use_**' you?"

Molly shook her head. "You know exactly what I mean. You flirt with me to get access to the morgue, or to get body parts. You compliment me to get me to go out on a case with you. You kiss me, for God's sake! Don't you realize that if you would just ask me, that I'd do it for you? You don't need to go this far; don't insult my intelligence! Why didn't you tell me last night was all for a case? I still would have helped you. Was all the dancing, and whispering, and touching completely necessary?"

The consulting detective averted his eyes and refused to answer. No it wasn't _necessary_, but that wasn't to say that it was entirely unpleasant.

"Sherlock, you thwart my every attempt at happiness. I try to move on, find someone, and you ruin it with your deductions and your horrid behavior. You criticize me when my relationships don't work out, even though it's usually your fault. Then you do that thing where you act affectionate and kind. You tell me that you need me. That I count- that I 'matter most'- so I set my heart on you, again, and you treat me horrendously; reducing me to nothing but a pest that is in your way! Either let go and let me move on… or -" Molly didn't know how to finish that sentence. Actually she did know, but it was a ridiculous notion. Instead she rallied on.

"I don't expect you to ever return my feelings, I accepted that long ago. Truly that's not even the biggest problem… I have given you everything you have ever asked me for, and you can't show me the least bit of respect? Do I really mean so little to you?"

At a loss for words (which never happens), Sherlock stared at her soaking in every word she said. Soon it was clear that he had no response to her question, which only inflamed her further.

"Sherlock, we are friends- or so I thought. Is that the problem then? I'm not John Watson, so you won't respect me?"

He began to feel his own anger rise. It wouldn't do him any good to lash out at her, he knew this, but then again he was never one for self-control. "Listen Dr. Hooper," he said scathingly, "I know that I am not the kindest of people, but I have always made an effort to show you that we are friends-"

Molly grunted and gave him a sardonic smile. "You've always made an effort? Ha! That's hilarious," she growled. "That's your problem. You don't know how much you hurt people, how much you've hurt me! People pity me Sherlock! Did you know that? They think I am pathetic for choosing to be around you…" He raised his eyebrows at the declaration. "That's right, I choose to be around you. So maybe they're right, hmm? I'm an idiot for sticking around when you treat me that way? But I can't do this anymore! So stop stringing me along, stop getting my hopes up, and leave me alone!"

The pathologist stepped around him and headed towards the door. She took off her lab coat to hang it up (as was her routine) and caught sight of the blood on the sleeve. _'Great, now I've got to take it home and wash it!'_ she thought.

Quickly she gathered the rest of her belongings, avoiding the glare that Sherlock was sending her way. She felt slightly silly for her behavior. Nothing was going to change, because in the seven years of their acquaintance, it never had. In a few days she would begin to miss him again, accept whatever apology he offered, and they would continue working as if nothing had happened. Like always.

She stopped at the door and sadly sighed. "I am not going to apologize for the things I've said," she began delicately. "While it is entirely true, it was rude of me to throw everything at you all at once. Give me a few days to calm down, and we'll talk again." She opened the doors to the lab and gave him one last look. "Honestly Sherlock, I wish you could understand how I feel… understand just how much your words and behavior pain me."

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**AN: There we go... This is sort of an introduction, but stay tuned!**

****Please take a second to leave a review, let me know how I'm doing!**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hello lovelies, I am blown away by all the follows and favorites! Very awesome indeed. I'm glad you all like strong Molly. She often gets a bad rap for being "weak", but there's a difference between being weak and being emotional. The two are not the same...**

**Anyways, here is Chapter 2. Hope you enjoy! :)**

_'__Italics'= inner thoughts_

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The following morning Sherlock was shocked to find that he had actually slept. After his confrontation with Molly at the lab, he retreated into his mind palace and reevaluated every single encounter the two had had. He loathed to admit that his actions were less than… _gentlemanly_… for lack of a better word, but she knew what type of man he was. And like she had said, she '_chose_' to stick around. Why should she be upset when she has the option of walking away?

He took a moment to look around at his surroundings. _'Yellow walls, beige carpeting, and the smell of lemons lingering in the air… Am I at Molly's flat?'_ He was surprised to be there of all places. She had asked him to leave her alone, which he had planned on respecting, but he didn't understand how he had ended up there. Another look around told him that something was different. He wasn't alone- he could hear Toby pawing at the bedroom door- but Molly's presence was missing. _'Perhaps she left to work.'_

Sherlock climbed out of bed and noticed that he was wearing his pajamas. He had frequently used Molly's flat as a bolt hole, so it wasn't necessarily an odd thing that he kept clothes there. The weird thing was that he didn't recall changing, nor climbing into bed for that matter. No sign of his suit lying about meant that he would have to pick clothing out of his designated drawer to wear home. Unfortunately for him, he only kept clothes he used for disguises there.

He rolled his eyes as he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror wearing his least offending outfit. A simple grey jumper and black trousers. Though he was not a vain man, he knew that his suits were exceptionally flattering. But this? Left a lot to be desired.

By the time he fed Toby (he would do this kindness, after all it was likely that Molly would be in an even fouler mood today) and fixed himself a cup of tea, he saw that he had several texts and one missed call… all from Mike Stamford.

Sherlock almost never interacted with Mike directly. Once it was discovered that he and Molly worked well together, Mike pretty much delegated all contact to Molly alone. Still, if Molly was angry with Sherlock, it was likely she would go to Mike and have him handle all communication for now. If he had any hopes of finding out what Mike needed, he would have to phone Mike himself.

"Mike, did you call me?" Sherlock said curtly.

**_"Sherlock! Um- yes I did, sorry to call so early but I was hoping you could come in today?"_** Mike asked hesitantly.

"Whatever do you need me for?" He bit out.

**_"Well we got a body, and the pathologist that is in today has very limited experience. I thought it best to leave things in your very capable hands. Besides Scotland Yard will be by, and I know how much…"_**

Sherlock exhaled sharply. "Fine, fine. I'll stop by. Is Molly there?"

**_"Err… Molly? Molly Hooper? No she's not, but I'm sure she'll be by as well. She never stays away for too long."_** Mike chuckled.

"Hmm. Right, I'll be there shortly Mike." Sherlock didn't wait for a response before hanging up.

He wouldn't have time to go home and change, but this was good. He would show up at the hospital, talk to Molly, and get her to forgive him! _'Surely there was no way she would react negatively if others were around, right?'_ he thought smugly.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock strolled into the morgue. Without his Belstaff billowing behind him, he didn't make nearly as a dramatic entrance as he was used to. _'Maybe Molly hid my clothes to get back at me? I'll have to ask her when I see her.'_

The body of the victim was already laying out on the autopsy table. The procedure had yet to begin, but Sherlock preferred to make his deductions before the body was cut into. He circled the table several times and filed away his findings for when Scotland Yard arrived. Not a moment sooner, DI Greg Lestrade (the only competent detective at the Yard, as far as Sherlock was concerned) arrived.

"Ah Sherlock! Have you got anything for me?" Greg asked cheerfully. Sherlock was just about to respond, when he was cut off by the sound of the morgue doors opening forcefully.

When he turned his body to see who was responsible for the disruption, he was startled by what he saw. In came Molly Hooper wearing a tailored trench coat, fitted trousers that accentuated her figure, a crimson blouse that brought out the natural hue of her cheeks, and a trim blazer that tied the whole look together. Completing the ensemble were some high- very high- black stilettos, and ponytail that bound her glossy hair. All in all, the effect was… pleasing to the eyes.

The sight of little Molly Hooper looking flawless- and gorgeous- amazed Sherlock. The Christmas of years past had revealed the figure she hid under her shapeless clothing, however at the time she looked like a child playing dress up. But now…

"Gavin, this had better be higher than a seven! Give me the details, and **don't **be boring. I did not get up at this God-forsaken hour in order to hold your hand as you attempt to do your job," Molly barked as she made her way into the room.

Sherlock, who was still recovering from her grand entrance, was shocked to hear speak in such a manner. Aside from their frequent squabbles, he had never seen Molly behave so… mean. The concern on his face must have been evident to Greg, who just shrugged and rolled his eyes. "Yeah she's always like that."

In response to Greg's comment, Molly's eyes shifted to Sherlock. She casually looked him up and down, deducing him as he was attempting to understand what was going on.

Greg took the opportunity to make introductions. "Oh Sherlock Holmes, this is Molly Hooper. She's a detective-"

Molly glared at him while she corrected him, "-_Consulting_ detective." Then she continued by smugly adding, "Only one in the world, I invented the job."

The DI rolled his eyes once more. "Yes, well… the body is over there, her name's Jessica Williams. I can give you two minutes, then I'll need everything you've got."

Sherlock watched in awe as Molly sashayed towards the corpse, all the while radiating grace and confidence. Never had he seen her so poised! Greg walked over to Sherlock and followed his gaze. The silver-haired man patted him on the back and grinned. "She'll break your heart, that one. Molly Hooper is beautiful, brilliant… but cold. Don't even think about it, mate." Greg chuckled.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. _'What the hell is going on?! Molly cold? Oh! Yes! Of course, Molly is trying to get back at me. She must have orchestrated this whole thing… Very clever! I'll play along.'_ He mused.

Greg listened as Molly spouted off deductions. "The victim was visiting from America, most likely California, somewhere with a beach. She is- was- vain, evident by her use of self-tanning cream and her shockingly white teeth… A student. She was here on a class trip, murdered by one of her fellow travelers. Knew her attacker, _obviously_. The killer is an older man, late thirties- maybe early forties, one of the fathers or teachers that came along. Clearly they were having an affair-"

"Come on," Greg interrupted. "You're just making this up! I don't even know why I bother coming to you-" Molly stepped into the detective's personal space before snapping, "You come to me because… You. Need. Me."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, _'Do I really sound like that?'_ he wondered.

The detectives- both legitimate and consulting- continued to exchange heated words until the DI stormed out, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone. He quickly thought to bring up the fight, admit defeat, and start making amends.

"Hi… Sherlock, was it?" Molly innocently cocked her head, not really expecting him to answer. She strode to Sherlock's side and gently put her hand on his arm, and in her sweetest voice she began. "I don't know if you've spoken with Mike, but we have an arrangement. Sometimes he supplies me with specimens to experiment on, and well…" Molly blinked her brown doe eyes a few times at him before shyly turning away. "Well, I was hoping that maybe you had some kidneys, or a heart, that you could spare? It would really help me out."

He opened his mouth to answer in the negative when he suddenly felt her stroking his bicep. Once distracted by the action, she seized the opportunity. "I didn't tell you earlier, but this is a lovely jumper. It really… suits you." She flashed him an enormous smile (the one that always did _things_ to him).

Sherlock was having a strange reaction to her proximity. His cheeks were burning up, his heart rate increased, and he was pretty sure his eyes would roll back if she continued caressing him like that. Molly pulled her hand away as her charming grin fell. "So can I get those parts now?"

Sherlock couldn't explain why he was struck with the urge to comply with her every wish. But he did know one thing: he did not like it. The sooner this _joke_ was over, the better.

* * *

**AN2: You see, but did you observe? I was very literal when I said he would get a taste of his own medicine. What do you think is going on: is it some elaborate joke? Or something more? Stay tuned...**

**Please take a second to review, tell me what you think; let me know if you have suggestions for what comes next. I have the next chapter ready, I'll probably post in a day or so. Thanks for reading! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Yowza! Thank you all for reading, reviewing, and following. You sure know how to make a girl feel special! This chapter is on the shorter side, but I figured it was better to post what I had than keep you in suspense. I hope you all enjoy! :)**

* * *

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock groaned as he woke up in Molly's flat again. How he got there, he had no idea. This time he took extra caution to observe his surroundings, starting with the dresser. None of Molly's personal things were in there; only men's pants and socks, his size to be exact. He went over to the wardrobe and found an array of outrageous jumpers and men's trousers, two rather large suit jackets, several button-down shirts (that had seen better days), and a vast number of wacky ties. In the bathroom, Molly's pink décor was replaced with more masculine colors. A shaving kit sat by the sink, Sherlock's brand of soap in the shower, and the exact aftershave he used in the cabinet. Exiting the room he noticed that the hallway table held letters and bills all addressed to: **Sherlock Holmes**. By all accounts, this was **_his_** flat.

He flopped onto the oversized chair in the sitting room to go over the facts. He remembered fighting with Molly, waking up in her flat, meeting "Molly: the consulting detective" in the morgue… before waking up once more.

Sherlock paced the halls of his mind palace, visiting and revisiting all the details at hand._ 'I wake up in a flat that isn't my own; in a life that isn't my own. This doesn't make sense! Chunks of time are missing… Was I drugged? No, impossible I am not experiencing any side effects. Is this some sort of prank? No, too elaborate. No one could pull this off in such a short amount of time…'_

All sense of time was lost when he was in his own head, however when he became aware of another person in the room, Sherlock snapped open his eyes. No longer at "his" flat, he realized that he was at Bart's lab.

Mike was shuffling around happily carrying on a conversation as if Sherlock had been there the whole time. "…Yeah she's a bit difficult at times, but she's bloody brilliant! Don't you agree?"

Unsure of whom Mike was talking about, and not wanting to give away his confusion, Sherlock gave a noncommittal "hmm" in response and sat himself in front of the microscope.

"Though I guess you should feel honored. I have seen Molly Hooper run off many of my employees before, but I've never heard of her _requesting_ someone. Must have made a good impression." Mike said as he gave Sherlock a playful slap on the back.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked.

"Didn't you hear a word I said? I was telling you that I received a call from Molly Hooper saying that she would only work with you. I believe her exact words were: _'Sherlock is the only semi-decent pathologist in your employ, everyone else is an idiot.'_"

The flutter in his stomach at the thought that Molly only wanted to work with him was nauseating. He groaned, however what came out was a delightedly wistful sigh… that didn't go unnoticed.

Mike chuckled. "You fancy her!" he said accusingly. "Wow, Sherlock. I have to warn you, be careful with that one."

Any attempt Sherlock made to deny the claim was instantly contradicted by the blush that colored his face and neck.

* * *

There was no rhyme or reason as to what was happening, but soon he found a pattern emerging. His days typically consisted of working at Bart's, finding causes of death (which really wasn't much different from his work as a detective) and waiting for Molly to show up. After he had some sort of encounter with her, he would mysteriously end up back at _'his'_ flat, without any notion of how he arrived. Then the sequence would repeat again.

It took five days of waking up in this 'life' to convince him that it was not some hoax. When motivated enough, Molly could pull of such a lie (hell, she convinced everyone he was dead for two years). But Lestrade? Not likely, he adhered to a strict code of ethics. And Mike Stanford? That sweet man couldn't lie to save his life.

No this was something unheard of. If he were a religious man, he would believe this was some sort of trial imposed by God. Regardless, whatever this was, it was clearly a punishment. But for what exactly? That was the mystery.

Sherlock was relieved that he maintained _some_ of his faculties. He could still access his mind palace. He still had his deductive reasoning. Unfortunately, he gained a few unwanted traits along the way. Now Sherlock Holmes was… sentimental. He found himself empathizing with others. Not only that, but he _'wore his heart on his sleeve' _or however that saccharine axiom went.

Yet, the nonsensical rambling had to be the worst part of this experience. Sure, before this- incident- happened, he had the tendency to speak without thinking. But those were usually deductions that tended to hurt people's "feelings." This, however, was entirely different… and apparently Molly-specific as it only seemed to occur in her company.

Slowly, Molly was becoming the bane of his existence. While he was thrilled to work with her- beside her, near her- it was becoming more and more difficult to hide his attraction towards her. If he wasn't blushing, he was stuttering, or bumbling, and making a complete ass out of himself. For someone so schooled in the ability to mask their emotions, Sherlock was doing a piss-poor job. No longer was he able to fashion an air of indifference and superiority.

He was admiring Molly while she inspected a body (nothing new there, he always loved watching her work) when he felt the sudden need to converse with her. He approached her, with casual chit-chat in mind- maybe he would add a handsomely witty remark- when the following words tumbled out of his mouth: "I was wondering…would you like to have a coffee?" _'Damn it! That's not what I wanted to say at all!'_

Molly looked up from her work, and beamed at him. "Yes. Black, two sugars. I'll be upstairs."

* * *

**AN: Told you it was short, sorry about that. Do you see where I am going with this? I hope so. **

**But now I am at a stand still, I'm not sure where to go from here. I will gladly take suggestions! Please review and let me know what you think. What scenes would you like me to recreate?**

**Lots of love! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: Holy Mary! The support for this story is incredible! Thank you for reviewing, following, and favorite-ing (?) the story. This is turning into quite a project, so I'll try to post as often as I can. When I wrote my other stories, I had an idea of how it would end. Now, I'm making it up as I go. That is why I am grateful for your suggestions. And on that note...**

**Thanks for the PMs and reviews with your suggestions/requests. Among them, the most frequent one was the Christmas Party from ASiB. Don't fret, I'd be silly not to include it.**

**Special shout out to: Agent Gingermane (you reviewed as a guest so I couldn't write to you directly) for giving me enough ideas for twenty chapters! Some of them had me laughing, and I'm excited to incorporate them into the plot!**

**Special thanks to Bellarsam Chrisjulittle for beta-ing (?) (also explaining it all to me!) and providing some very interesting twists that I will definitely be including in the following chapter. ;)**

**Anyways, here's the next chapter. I took artistic liberties and played loose with the dialogue, so the scenes won't happen exactly as they did on the show. **I do not own Sherlock, words are courtesy of Mofftiss!**

_'Italics'= inner monologue_

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was frustrated. No, frustrated did not begin to describe what he felt. Exasperated? Closer, but the adjective didn't quite fit. _'Hopeless, that's it,'_ he thought despondently. He had been stuck in this nightmare for a few weeks (by his count), and he was nowhere near figuring out its purpose. Surely there was a lesson to be learned; as to what it was, he could not say.

The encounters were becoming more than just fleeting moments, but rather significant clues to help him sort out this ordeal. He would store every conversation- actually everything and anything he could- and then review the information at a later time. Unfortunately the only thing he had gathered thus far was that the person he was in front of Molly was not himself, but a poor facsimile. No, not even that, because Sherlock had never been anything but confident. It was infuriating that he could no longer tap into his overflowing reserve of self-assuredness. Instead, he was doomed to a life (or for however long this took) playing the role of the bumbling fool.

Sherlock was on his way upstairs to the lab when he was stopped by the sound of clicking heels in the hallway. Heels that could only belong to…

"M-Molly! Hello, I wasn't sure you would be stopping by today. Not that I was hoping you would- I-um err… that's not to say I am not pleased to see you!" _'Jesus Sherlock! Just shut up and stop talking,'_ he chastised himself.

"Sherlock..." Molly murmured warningly, or annoyed (he never could tell), without looking up from her phone. "The body downstairs in the morgue, I need to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes. A man's alibi depends on it. I'll be upstairs." She put her phone away with a dramatic flair, smiled insincerely, and walked away.

Thirty minutes later Sherlock made his way to the lab with his- incredibly well written- findings in one hand and a cup of coffee for Molly in the other. _'God this is pathetic… I am running around doing little favors for her so- that what- she'll like me? Notice me? What the hell is happening to me?'_ he wondered.

His internal monologue was interrupted when he entered the room and saw another man speaking with his Molly. Upon closer inspection, he discovered that that man was Doctor John Watson.

_'Idiot! Why didn't I think to go to John? He can help.'_

"…Is that it? We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" John asked incredulously while flashing a disarming grin.

"Problem?" Molly huffed, sounding slightly aggravated.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name!" the doctor cried out with a hint of humor in his tone.

Instantly, Sherlock knew what he was walking in on; it was the moment he had met his potential flatmate, the one who would eventually become his best friend. However, never did he remember John looking at him in that way. _'No! This isn't right! John is married with a baby, he can't move in with Molly!'_

Molly eyed John closely, side-stepping Sherlock as though he wasn't there at all. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you, but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him… possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic- quite correctly I'm afraid." She finished her long-winded evaluation of the man and smugly sneered at him. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

Sherlock stared agape watching the two interact, while John looked at Molly with- arousal?- in his eyes.

"That was… amazing," John said, clearly impressed.

_'No. Nononononononono! It isn't supposed to be like this; this is not what happened. Before Mary, John was always parading women around the flat. Besides, John's track record with women was… Oh dear God! I can't- I won't- allow Molly to be another one of his conquests!'_

Molly's head turned sharply, surprised by the army doctor's observation. "Do you think so?" she asked, sounding somewhat unsure. Sherlock sighed fondly at that; some of his panic subsiding. It was a small relief to see that the old Molly hadn't completely faded away.

John ruffled his hair, and narrowed his eyes. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary…" he walked slowly towards Molly, reminding Sherlock of a predator. "It was _quite_ extraordinary."

With a brand new wave of anxiety rolling in, Sherlock's mind began race. _'She wouldn't fall for that, right? He's not her type, __**I'm**__ her type! No, Molly cannot end up with John!'_

* * *

Sherlock, feeling like a third wheel, moved to the other side of the lab bench. It was moments such as this where it paid to be 'invisible.' He occupied himself by fiddling with the knobs of the microscope to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping on their conversation.

"So are you dating anyone?" John mumbled casually, which earned an eye roll from Sherlock. _'The man just won't give up!'_

Molly continued working, undeterred by his question. "Hmm dating? No, not really my area."

Upon hearing her response, John perked up. "Right, okay. So you're unattached. Like me… Good." He continued to ramble and grin like an idiot. Sherlock marveled at his best friend in action. _'It's a wonder he ever got on with a woman. This is embarrassing to watch.'_

It took a second for Molly to understand his intentions. She glanced up at him and began to shift uncomfortably. "John-um… I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work. And while I am flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any-"

Sherlock, who was still feigning interest in his work, had to choke back his laughter. Hearing Molly turn down John was pleasing- for several reasons.

John interrupted before she could get through the rest of her rejection. "Oh- um- no! No, I'm not asking… I'm just saying, it's fine."

Relaxing a bit, Molly gave him a small smile in return. "Good. Thank you." She quickly scanned the room before her eyes landed on Sherlock.

"Ah Sherlock! There you are," she said enthusiastically, strolling to his side and rewarding him with a genuine smile. "Do you have what I need?"

Between the smile and the- rather suggestive- phrasing of her question, Sherlock was at a loss for words. All he could stutter out was an airy "Pardon?"

Molly smirked at the effect she was having on him before changing her demeanor. "The results? Bruising on the body… Any of this ringing a bell?"

He was alarmed by how her mood switched from pleasant to impatient in a manner of seconds. He silently placed the report into her waiting hands, keeping his gaze on her, and hoping that she would show him some sign of gratitude. Really, he should have known better.

With the report in hand, Molly quickly wrapped her scarf around her delicate neck and moved towards the exit. She was halfway out of the room, when she turned back and peeked her head around the door.

"The name's Molly Hooper and the address is 221B Baker Street." After mischievous wink and wishing a salacious "Afternoon" the petite woman sauntered away, leaving two very stunned men behind.

Feeling rather dazed, both men continued to stare, trying to comprehend the events that had transpired. John, in a show of male camaraderie, turned to look at Sherlock. "Damn," he huffed in amusement; a boyish grin on his face.

Sherlock didn't respond, but he exhaled slowly and nodded in agreement. He always took pride in his artistry with words, but in this instance, "Damn" seemed to work just fine.

* * *

**AN: Ah, I love writing John! Please take a second to let me know what you think!**

**As always, feel free to give me suggestions for future chapters! :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Thanks for the continued support! I'm not entirely pleased with this chapter, but I felt like it needed it to keep the story moving forward. This is kind of a filler chapter, but Sherlock learns something important. Sorry if you hate it, but I hope you stick with me anyways! :)**

_'Italics'= inner thoughts_

* * *

Much to Sherlock's dismay, John moved into the flat… at 221B Baker Street… with Molly Hooper. His only consolation was that John was now in a position to protect her. It didn't matter if this was some sort of "alternate universe" or not, the job of _consulting detective_ was a dangerous one. And Sherlock knew- from personal experience- that there was no one better to have at your side than John Watson.

Fortunately, it only took a month of living with Molly to annihilate any sexual attraction John had held for her. Severed heads in the refrigerator will do that, apparently. The two frequently bickered like siblings over the matter, oftentimes catching Sherlock in the crossfire.

"Mate," John whispered to him while Molly was examining a body. "Must you give her all those spare parts?"

"Well she asks for them… and it helps her with her research. Her work has been very informative," Sherlock said, satisfied with his answer. He knew that her _contribution to science_ wasn't that only reason he obliged, but he'd be damned if he were to admit that to John.

For all the times Sherlock criticized John for his lack of observational skills, John was on to his true intentions. He sighed, "Informative? Right…" Sherlock didn't respond, but his blush certainly spoke volumes.

The two (Molly and John, that is) quickly became a fixture at Bart's. Whether they were there assisting Scotland Yard or working on one of their private cases, they always required Sherlock's help. Molly would arrive, demand his full cooperation/attention, get what she needed, and dash off without so much as a thank you. And each time Sherlock would get caught up in the whirlwind that was Molly, only to be saddled with a feeling of emptiness when she left.

It was a surreal experience to be on the other side. He missed it- the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping in his veins- and he wished that Molly could see his utility outside of the hospital. Too often, he never learned much about the cases aside from his part in it. John's blog filled in many of the blanks, but there was nothing like experiencing it for yourself.

Sherlock had always assumed that he and John were friends because of their shared adrenaline-seeking tendencies; but take that away, could they still be friends? Evidently so.

The two would entertain themselves with easy conversation while Molly worked on the latest case. Sherlock thought about broaching his situation with John- but really how does one even begin to address the topic when you don't understand it yourself?- however thought better of it. He was supposed to be learning something (that much was certain), and he could learn a lot from John.

* * *

It was late; more specifically, it was four hours after Sherlock's shift had ended, and he was struggling to stay awake. Molly had arrived with a case worthy of a ten- closed door triple homicide- and had asked for (_demanded_) Sherlock's assistance. As usual, he had opened his mouth to say no when an eager "Yes!" came out in its place.

He used the extra time to finish the day's paperwork- _tedious_\- and watch Molly while she worked. It was then that he noticed John hunched over the work bench… sound asleep. _'Why did he come, if all he's going to do is sleep?'_ Sherlock wondered as he went over to wake him before he fell over.

Looking around a bit disoriented, John stood up and stretched languidly. "Thanks, this is always the part that I hate… You know the waiting," John said unsolicited. "I much prefer the running around and catching the bad guy."

Sherlock smirked at that (he liked that too) but the science was the beauty of the whole process. One careless mistake- a fiber, a stain, a footprint- that is all he needed. That, to Sherlock, was the thrilling part. "So then what are you doing here now?" he asked curiously.

John sighed and rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes, "Are you kidding? If I leave her alone, she's likely to get punched in the face. She's not exactly tactful, as you well know…" Sherlock nodded in agreement. No, _this_ Molly was not tactful at all. But his Molly was; she was sweet and caring, and as far as he knew, no one had ever wanted to punch her.

_'Is this what John does for me? Keeps people from hitting me? Hmm… since becoming friends, fewer people have assaulted me. However John has punched me on many occasions...'_ he continued to ponder as John rambled on.

He had been stuck in his thoughts for a while when he realized that John was collecting his things, getting ready to leave. "Tell Molly that I went home, I've got a shift at the surgery tomorrow and I need to get some sleep… and I'm pretty sure you won't be punching her in the face- snog her, maybe- but nah, you wouldn't hit her." John snickered as he left.

_'Am I that transparent?'_ Sherlock contemplated, before returning to his previous task: watching Molly.

* * *

As much as he enjoyed John's company, Sherlock lived for the moments when he was alone with Molly in the lab. Even prior to his life turning upside-down, Molly and the lab had always played a significant role. The lab provided the quiet that his mind needed, while Molly provided… well he didn't know, but he did know that things were better when she was near.

Sherlock enjoyed being around her. Once she had gotten over her stammer and constant blushing, he discovered that she was quite a pleasant companion. They discussed her autopsies, his cases, different ways to commit the perfect murder- in other words, he was able to have conversations most people would scoff at with Molly. She was his friend, even when he believed he didn't have any, she had always been there.

This was exactly why it bothered him to no end that people assumed that she meant nothing more to him than access to the hospital. Truth be told, he didn't need her permission (Mycroft had set that up for him years ago), but she always seemed to help him in her own unique Molly-way.

Ultimately, this misconception had saved her life. Jim Moriarty have overlooked her and she had been spared the trouble of having a sniper aim at her. And for that he was grateful. But it had raised a question that haunted him during his two-year mission. _What exactly about my behavior made people believe that Molly didn't matter? Including Molly?_

Sherlock was broken out of his reverie by the beeping of the mass spectrometer. "Results what you expected?" he inquired casually.

"Oh yes!" Molly answered enthusiastically while smiling at him beatifically. Much to his surprise, she jotted down a few notes and remained in her seat. Sherlock was confused. "Um- aren't you going to run-off now?"

Molly shrugged, "The victim will still be dead in the morning. I was thinking I would hang around here with you. John has a date with- Sasha? Susie? I don't know, it doesn't matter- and he made it abundantly clear that I am not to interrupt him. Had the nerve to tell me that he would throw away my experiments!"

Sherlock chuckled. He had been there many times before; John would threaten him not to do something, Sherlock would do the thing, and all his experiments would end up in a bin somewhere. "Sounds about right," he said ruefully.

The pair spent the next several hours talking, and for a minute he felt like he was transported back to his old life. They shared conjectures, giggled while they debated theories, and went another round of "Hide the Body" when he realized the time. It was late. He should be home now. But leaving meant walking away from Molly, which he wasn't ready to do just yet.

Molly caught him slyly looking at his watch. "It's late," she said while gathering her coat and scarf. Resigned, Sherlock stood to join her and followed her example. They walked through the corridor of the hospital in companionable silence. When they reached the doors, Molly stopped him by putting her arm on his. "Thank you," she said softly.

"Huh? F-for what?" he stuttered, completely astounded by the sudden show of appreciation. The petite woman grinned at him, obviously pleased with his reaction, and strode away.

Sherlock watched, fully mesmerized by her. When she was out of his sight he turned and headed towards his flat in the opposite direction, all the while replaying their time together. He thought about her gushing deductions, doing lab work, observing a corpse… then his mind wandered into dangerous territory. He thought about her eyes shining with excitement, the curve of her smile when she was right about something, and finally he thought about her laugh. _'Oh that laugh!'_ he remembered fondly. The only thing he treasured more was when he was the one to make her laugh.

With a warm feeling in his belly, and a big goofy grin on his face, he came to a sudden realization… _'I am in love with Molly Hooper!'_

* * *

**AN: Hope that wasn't too bad. I wanted to write this because I think people would feel that Molly was stupid for being friends with Sherlock. But she's a smart girl, obviously they had to have had some good times (even if we don't see it on the show). Do you agree?**

**Now Sherlock is thinking about his past behavior, and he's realized he loves her... Next chapter will definitely include more scenes from the show.**

**Please take a quick second to let me know what you think. Any suggestions or constructive criticism is appreciated, but please don't make me cry! Lots of love! :) **


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: I'm telling y'all, I'm struggling with story (I think I got too ambitious). Thank you for your reviews and follows, it really does encourage me to go on! Hope you enjoy! :)**

Consequently, who else had their heart broken by our favorite leading man this weekend? (Yes I know they are cute together, and they look truly happy with one another... but there's nothing wrong with a girl thinking he would show up to my small U.S. town and fall in love with me, right?) *Sigh* But seriously, I'm dying to see wedding photos!

_'Italics'= inner thoughts_

_*Some of the dialogue is courtesy of the great brains of Moffat and Gatiss (whom I adore!)_

* * *

For many, the onslaught of emotions one experiences when they realize that they are in love can be intense. For Sherlock Holmes, it was traumatizing. The emotionally-repressed man was overwhelmed by _feeling_ so much at the same time. _'If being in love means continuously trying to sort out my feelings, it's a wonder why I have avoided it for so long,'_ he thought bitterly.

Not that it really mattered what his thoughts on love were. No, even he was aware enough to know that he was past any attempt of reigning in theses amorous notions. Nope, the man was screwed.

So, being the great thinker that he was, Sherlock entered his mind palace in search of a solution. _'Obviously I have to do something about this. I refuse to endure this longer than I have to… I need to create some sort of plan! But before I begin, I need to know if this Molly feels the same way about me. That shouldn't be too difficult; after all, the old Molly did.'_

Sherlock considered his options:

**1\. Ask her bluntly.** (He eliminated this choice immediately._ 'In my real life, this wouldn't have been a problem. Speaking frankly was my only way of communicating. But now, for whatever reason, I have very little control over what words leave my mouth, so this is not a reliable option.'_)

**2\. Become indispensable.** (Seeing as she had already requested his help multiple times, there was little to gain from this plan. _'No,' _he deliberated, '_I will continue to do my best work for her, hopefully impress her, thus earning her trust and maybe a little "gratitude". Plus spending time with her in the lab is always an added bonus.'_)

**3.** **Appeal to her physically.** ('_This is the winner!'_ he surmised. _'She liked me before, so clearly she must have found me attractive at some point. Additionally, this plan does not require me to talk to her, therefore removing the risk of embarrassing myself. This is perfect!_')

Sherlock tried to recall all the times Molly had shown some sort of interest. _'Well that will be difficult to narrow down, she's always been interested…'_ he mused smugly, feeling more confident than he had since all of this started. He chose to refine his search by choosing specific times she displayed arousal in his presence: dilated pupils, increased breath rate, flushed appearance, and an elevated pulse. One such instance popped into mind:

It had been soon after his return, and Sherlock was bored. He had reluctantly taken one of Mycroft's cases — a high-ranking foreign politician had been kidnapped and held for ransom, which later turned out to be staged in hopes of gaining sympathetic votes in the next election— and since he had been indebted to his brother, it was imperative that he follow protocol. In this case, it meant he had to wear the appropriate attire before storming into the abandoned warehouse alongside the MI6 agents that had accompanied him. Once he deduced and revealed the anticlimactic truth about the politician's intentions, he had riled himself up and marched away from the crime scene.

It was only after arriving at St. Bart's that he realized he hadn't changed out of the tactical uniform that had been forced upon him. Molly took in his appearance, hungrily; tight fitting black trousers tucked into black combat boots paired with an equally tight-fitting long sleeved armour shirt. By the time her eyes reached his slicked-back hair, she was near hyperventilating. "Sh-Sherlock? Is that you?" she stuttered nervously.

"Of course, who else- oh the uniform? Yes," he rolled his eyes, "Mycroft had me clean up another mess for him. Boring! Needless to say, I was a bit disappointed… Anyways I'm here to pick up something—anything really—I can have to take home and experiment. Do you-" Sherlock stopped mid-rant when he observed Molly.

Molly stood there, all the while licking her lips looking like she was ready to pounce on him at any second. When she realized Sherlock was no longer talking, she began to move towards him. "Sorry Sherlock, it's just that you look—um, different. Are you, um, a fan of the Star Trek films, by any chance?"

* * *

Sherlock smiled at the memory. He was neither naïve nor humble enough to deny that he was attractive—he was no stranger to receiving attention from both females and males—but there was something to be said about a woman like Molly staring at you in such a way. It certainly did things to his ego, among other things…

Now all he had to do was recreate the look, and wait for Molly to show up and turn into a puddle at his feet.

* * *

Sherlock was rewarded for his efforts after only a few days of his self-prescribed makeover. He had been standing in line at the canteen, deciding between the two vile options that were available for consumption.

"What are you thinking; pork or the pasta?" Molly asked, suddenly appearing behind him in the queue.

"Oh it's you!" Sherlock responded a bit eagerly. He quickly ran his hand through his hair, taking care to smooth out his curls, and emphasizing the slick look instead.

Molly continued looking at the food choices in disgust. "This place is never going to trouble Egon Ronay, is it?" She smiled briefly in his direction. "I'd stick with the pasta. Don't wanna be doing roast pork… not if you're slicing up cadavers."

For all his bravado when establishing this plan, Sherlock was having trouble hiding his anxiety. He gave her a nervous smile in return, and opted to keep his words to a minimum. "What are you having?"

She turned her attention back to the food. "Don't eat when I'm working. Digesting slows me down," she finished while patting her stomach.

"Oh, so you're working here tonight?" he asked crestfallen. He had—not so secretly—hoped that she would join him in a meal, even if it was at Bart's. Regardless, even if she was there for work, at least he would be able to spend some time with her.

Molly's body language snapped back into what he called "professional mode." This meant that she wasn't sticking around for the mindless chit-chat; no, she wanted to get down to business. "I need to examine some bodies."

The confusion on his face must have read loudly. "Some?" The petite detective rolled her eyes before responding, "Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis."

_'The names sound familiar. Why do they sound familiar? Obviously this is one of my old cases, but no… I recently saw them—oh my notes!'_ Sherlock took a look at the list of autopsies to complete that he was carrying on his clipboard. "They're on my list," he said hesitantly. He remembered the case clearly now. Black Lotus—a Chinese gang that used these victims to smuggle ancient relics into the country. It wasn't safe for her; she should just leave it alone.

Molly gave him her best puppy-dog eyes while biting her lower lip. "Could you wheel them out again… for me?"

_'I shouldn't, I won't allow her to put herself in dangerous situations!'_ he said to himself. Sherlock gave her an apologetic look. "Well… the paperwork's already gone through." _'There! I didn't say no, but I believe I made it clear that I cannot-'_

The woman of his affections interrupted his internal rambles. She looked him once over as if noticing him for the first time since beginning this conversation. "You've… changed your hair," Molly declared and pointed to his head.

"What?" Sherlock questioned timidly. _'Oh that's right my hair; she noticed! It's all falling into place!'_

Molly smiled affectionately and continued to gaze at his hair. "The-the style… It's usually curly," she answered and stepped closer to him. "Mmm, it's good. It—um—suits you better this way."

He took a few seconds to appreciate the look on her face. Sure it wasn't the same reaction he had received from the old Molly, but nevertheless, it was a look that sent his insides aflutter.

Approximately twenty minutes later, while unzipping the first of the body bags, he realized that he had been bamboozled into complying with her wish.

* * *

As time went on, another pattern emerged. Molly would frequently pay him compliments; sometimes it was in regards to his work, but other times they were compliments of a more _personal_ nature. Occasionally these endearments would be joined with a touch of his arm, or a pat on his back… but once in the privacy of _their_ lab (as he now referred to it) she had brushed a wayward curl from his forehead.

The feel of her hand delicately grazing his face felt more intimate than anything he had experienced before. He glanced up and caught a glimmer of the old Molly in her eyes; it was a look that he had often ignored, or more specifically he had misunderstood. However, he now knew what it meant, as he was sure it was the same look on his face. Adoration.

_'Surely she is feeling this too, right?'_ his mind raced. _'I can't be imagining something that isn't there…'_ Sherlock leaned into her touch and closed his eyes. This wasn't the first time he was this close to her—he had kissed her before—but this was the first time she had initiated such contact with him. He waited for her to make a move, but was sadly disappointed when he opened his eyes and saw that she had returned to her work.

"I'll need you to check for fluids on the Brandon victim as soon as possible. I believe the killer kisses his victim before disposing of the body, perhaps we can find some residual DNA," Molly ordered.

Sherlock bobbed his head in accord, feeling slightly frazzled by the brush off he had just received. _'Did she touch me because she wanted to, or because she thought I would be more agreeable if she did?'_ He briefly reviewed different instances in which she had come into contact; at times, she had some ulterior motive for pursuing his good graces (use of the lab, access to a body, faster results, etc.) but occasionally her touch was just a touch. Sherlock huffed a little louder than he had anticipated—that was ignored by Molly—and resolved, _'I will have to be more aggressive in my approach.'_

* * *

**AN: So... did you like that Khan reference? Again thank you to Agent Gingermane for the suggestion!**

**I've gone through Sherlock and Molly's interactions, and I'm not sure if I should use them all. I don't want the story to drag on. I've already decided to include the Christmas scene (which I'm working on now! squee!), but what do you guys want to see? IS the story already dragging on?**

**Please let me know what y'all think; if it's getting boring, I'll find a way to end it sooner. Thanks! :)**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: So after a bout of insomnia followed by a seriously BAD day, this little darling fell out of my head a lot faster than anticipated (Writing is my therapy). Your reviews helped me, and I'm glad to know that I haven't bored y'all yet. I think that there will only be two more chapters after this one, but they will be slightly longer in order to move the story along. Hope you guys like it! :)**

**Remember I am playing fast and loose with the timeline of the show. Don't hold it against me! Some of the dialogue was borrowed and tweaked from the genius words of Moffat and Gatiss, for whom I have nothing but the utmost respect. Seriously, I bow down to them!**

_'italics'= inner thoughts _

* * *

Sherlock Holmes was becoming weary of this "hot and cold" act. One minute Molly would encourage his affections (almost returning them herself); the next minute she would shrug him off. It was hindering, infuriating, and incredibly cruel.

In the span of five minutes, Molly had already greeted him sincerely, complimented him insincerely, and embarrassed him by referring to the lack of sex he was having (_"Obviously… look at his handwriting. Sexually frustrated," she had said nonchalantly)._

John had reprimanded her immediately, but by then, the damage had been done. Sherlock gathered the 'exposing' paperwork, made his excuses, and retired to his office to finish his work.

He felt discouraged, and just a teeny bit ridiculous. _'Is it stupid to continue to pursue her? She hasn't given any indication of her attraction towards me. But when we are alone…'_ It was a constant war brewing inside his head; the choice between giving up or trying harder. Well fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the day— Sherlock was nothing if not tenacious. _'Try harder it is!'_

* * *

Several days later, Molly and John were back working at the lab—well Molly was working, while John lectured her about some transgression she had committed. Sherlock, who had cooled off by this point, walked in and caught the last part of their conversation.

"…why are you so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" Molly asked while looking into the microscope.

John closed eyes and shook his head in disbelief. "Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."

Molly scoffed, "what for?" She glanced up at John before continuing. "This hospital is full of people dying, _Doctor_. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?" she said, spitting out the last word in order to emphasize the absurdity.

The good doctor broke eye contact and looked away angrily. He was just about to retort with some sort of argument, when a beep from the computer interrupted him.

"Ah!" Molly cried delightedly. Sherlock used the disruption to make his presence known. "Any luck?"

Molly beamed at him, "Oh yes!" He approached t

he computer to take a look at the result, but was distracted when Molly's gaze went towards the door.

A soft knock, followed by a head peeking in, revealed the intruder. "Sherlock? Oh sorry, I thought you would be alone. I could come back—"

_'What the fuck?'_

"Irene?" Sherlock quickly moved away from Molly, and tried recalling any memory of this. _'Irene never came down to Bart's, what is she doing here?'_ He turned to look at Molly, who was deducing The Woman intensely. Seeing Molly dressing her down, gave him the confidence to continue with this new turn of events. "Come in, Irene."

Irene Adler walked into the lab like a queen would enter her castle. She was dressed in a black figure-hugging dress that accentuated all of her feminine attributes, her hair was pinned up like a 50's movie star, and her make-up was painted on highlighting her plump lips and stone-cold blue eyes. In short, she oozed sex.

She confidently made her way to Sherlock, her eyes zoned in on the only other woman in the room. Sherlock was taken back to a moment in which Molly had felt threatened by this woman—a woman that was dead, (with a bashed up face as he recalled) lying on her slab. _'I don't want Molly to feel insecure… but perhaps if she sees how Irene enjoys flirting with me, she'll become jealous and admit her feeling for me!'_ Okay, so it wasn't one of his best plans; but Irene provoked a certain reaction from people, and he could only hope that Molly would follow in the same way.

Irene, who was suggestively rubbing Sherlock's arm, nodded her head in the direction of the detective and her blogger. Sherlock had been so lost in the 'brilliance' of his plan, that he had forgotten social niceties that were expected of him. "Introductions, right! Irene, this is Molly Hooper and John Watson."

John tripped over his own feet before reaching Irene. He stretched out his hand, "Pleased to meet—"

"So _you're_ Molly Hooper," Irene said huskily, completely ignoring John's advances. "I've heard all about you. You on one of your cases?" She slinked over to Molly's side, pushing John out of the way in the process.

"Irene is a consultant of sorts," Sherlock added cryptically, and smiled at his joke. "That's how we met."

Molly faced Irene for the first time and softly muttered, "Gay," under her breath. Sherlock's smile faded. _'No, no, no! She's not supposed to deduce that, at least not yet. There's still hope of salvaging this.'_

A soft nudge from John made her amend her observation, "I mean, hey."

Irene smiled wickedly before knocking over a dish off the lab bench, "Whoops, sorry!" She bent down and quickly retrieved the bowl, missing Molly's eye roll at her antics. "Well, I'd better be off. Sherlock, I'll see you back at yours later?"

"Um—yeah," he answered back uncertainly. Sherlock remembered this moment vividly. The interloper hadn't been Irene Adler, but Moriarty. Molly had introduced him (in an attempt to make him jealous, he suspected) which ultimately ended with Sherlock offending her with his deductions. He shuddered at the memory of her face when he had successfully revealed her new _boyfriend's_ hidden secrets. All he could do now was brace himself for when Molly returned the favor.

"It was nice to meet you," Irene addressed the detective one last time. She locked her stare on Molly willing her to make contact with her. After a few uncomfortable seconds, John broke the tension by mumbling, "yeah, you too." Irene gave him a tight smile in return, winked at Sherlock, and headed towards the door.

The doctor, the detective, and the pathologist all watched the swish of The Woman's hips as she quit the room. "What do you mean 'gay'? They're together," John asked indignantly, pointing from Sherlock to the door.

Molly looked across the bench in Sherlock's direction. "Oh yes, and domestic bliss must suit you. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Sherlock huffed, "Two and a half." It wasn't his fault that in 'this world' he required refueling much more frequently; not to mention the lack of hunting down criminals had softened his physique a bit.

"Hmm, three" she said feeling confident in her estimate.

"Molly, she's not gay!" John said hotly. Sherlock was feeling annoyed, but he spared a second to appreciate how defensive John was becoming. _'He must think that he has a chance with Irene… Poor man.'_

"Relax John, it's not like you had much of a chance with her!" Molly snorted, "Sherlock, she's gay. And I'm pretty sure that's not the only thing she is hiding…"

Sherlock began to feel his anger rise. It wasn't enough for her to dismiss him, now she had to humiliate him as well? He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw, "Just stop! Why do you have to spoil it? She's not—"

"Not gay?" she finished for him. "Please, did you see how she gawked at me?"

"Because she stared at you? Maybe she was admiring your outfit… Women do that, right?" John declared, looking over at Sherlock for confirmation.

Molly shook her head. "No, no… There's a difference. Had she been interested in my clothes she would have made some lame attempt to ask about the shops I visit. No, the look she gave me was absolutely predatory. Also she's sexually aggressive… Possibly a sex worker then."

"Sex worker?" Sherlock asked curiously. He hadn't expected that she would come so close to the truth, especially since there weren't any clues to support this hypothesis.

John grunted, clearly bothered by Molly's behavior. "Oh this is just absurd! So we're supposed to believe that she's not only gay, but a sex worker as well? No, you are way off Molly!"

She exhaled sharply, "I stand by my deductions. Plus there's the extremely suggestive fact that she just left her number under this dish here." Molly picked up the dish Irene had knocked over, revealing a card with a phone number written on it. "I'd say you better break it off now, Sherlock, and save yourself the pain."

For the second time that week, Sherlock gathered his work and stormed out of the lab.

* * *

Despite the loud protestations coming from his mind, Sherlock decided to move forward with his plan. He was convinced that the reason behind this topsy-turvy world had something to do with him and Molly. _'Maybe the objective is to make __**this**__ Molly fall in love with me… The sooner I do that, the sooner I will return home,'_ he rationalized.

Knowing that he had to continue with his plan had been the easy part. The 'how' of it all was proving to be much more problematic. The solution appeared when John Watson approached him the following day.

"Oi! Sherlock," John yelled down the corridor. "I'm glad I caught you before you left for the day. I wanted to invite you to a Christmas get together we are having at Baker Street. I don't know if you'll be busy, but if you didn't have any plans, I know Molly and I would love to have you there!"

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously. "Molly? Christmas party?"

John chuckled, "Yeah—had a hell of a time convincing her, but finally she agreed. Consequently, she may be asking for more body parts. I made a compromise you see; if she agreed, then I wouldn't complain about her experiments for a month. Seemed to like that… Anyways, you'll come?"

The offer was tempting—he had missed his flat at Baker Street—but he knew what would undoubtedly happen at this party. In fact, the events of that horrid party had haunted him for years now. Hence his surprise when "I'd love to!" escaped his lips.

**~oOo~**

Later in the privacy of his (Molly's) flat, he replayed the dreadful scene repeatedly in order to squeeze out all pertinent information. It wouldn't play out exactly the same, he knew that, but knowing what to expect eliminated the possibility of discomfort. And Sherlock was determined to make this as painless as possible.

Though his behavior had been abhorrent—which he made no attempt at denying—Molly had not been entirely innocent in the debacle. _'She dressed like that in order to goad some sort of reaction from me… Perhaps it wasn't what she had planned, but she knows me well enough to realize that I would not make it through the evening without commenting on her attire. She should have known better!'_

Sherlock grimaced. Blaming Molly for his poor conduct was like saying an exploited victim _deserved_ their abuse. The irony of comparing Molly to a victim was not lost on him; he had abused her, or rather his words had. He would make it up to her eventually, but for now he had to prepare for the party.

He decided he would not be making the same mistake that Molly had. She had worn a figure-flattering dress that night, however, it had been so out of character that it overshadowed her appearance. She had tried too hard; if her goal was to entice him, he would have much rather preferred her in something more _Molly_. Fortunately for her—and the rest of the people in attendance—he hadn't included his observation that she looked like a child playing dress-up. So, he would keep it simple and wear a suit… but not any of the ones currently hanging in his wardrobe.

If he went out a bought himself a bespoke suit, it didn't mean that he was dressing to impress Molly. Nope, all it meant was that he was accustomed to a better quality of dress. And if it cost more than what a pathologist earned in two months, well then… so be it.

With one final look in the mirror, he released the top two buttons of his shirt, and walked out the door. Sherlock looked good, and more importantly he felt good. He dared Molly to find something wrong with him.

Perhaps he shouldn't have tempted the fates.

**~oOo~**

"I see you've got a new girlfriend, Sherlock, and you're serious about her."

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock asked quietly. He knew what was coming, but that didn't keep him from feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

Molly's eyes narrowed as she deduced. "In fact, you're seeing her this very night and giving her a gift." Sherlock felt his heart begin to race.

Sensing disaster, the former soldier intervened. "Take a day off, Molly" John muttered exasperatedly. Greg moved over and placed a glass in front of her. "Here, shut up and have a drink."

Ignoring both directives, Molly continued to observe Sherlock. "Oh come on! Surely you've all seen the present at the top of the bag… perfectly wrapped with a bow—all the others are slapdash at best!"

She walked towards him and picked up the present at the top, not noticing how his fists were clenching and unclenching. "It's for someone special, then?" She arched her eyebrow pointedly and sneered, challenging him to refute it.

Sherlock's heart was pounding now. In a manner of seconds he had experienced a rush of conflicting emotions. Anger, definitely at the forefront, and fear of what she would reveal lingering in the background. Hadn't he anticipated—prepared for—this? Hadn't he replayed these exact words in his mind? He closed his eyes and pursed his lips, silently pleading that she would do the kind thing and just shut up. But she just kept right on…

"The color of the wrapping paper echoes the shade of his dress shirt—either an unconscious association or one that he's deliberately trying to encourage. Either way, our Mister Holmes has _looove_ on his mind," she said tauntingly. "The fact that he's serious about her is clear from the fact that he's giving her a gift at all."

He felt John's eyes on him, but Sherlock refused to look up from the floor. No—if he looked up, he knew he would see everyone pitying him, and his pride would not—could not allow it. Instead, he shuffled in place.

"That would suggest long-term hopes… however forlorn… and that he's seeing her tonight is evident from what he's wearing." Sherlock willed himself to glance at Molly, who was smiling smugly and turning over the gift tag that bore her name. He tuned her out; he had heard enough.

In all the visits to his mind palace (in which he had viewed this moment), why had he never noticed the pitying stares Molly received and the glares he had received imploring him to stop? Had he made Molly felt like this? Surely not.

Sherlock was known for speaking acerbically, but not Molly. No question about it, this definitely had to be worse. There was something truly wrong about hearing such brutal words fall from her lips; lips that he still had the desire to kiss, despite himself.

A soft "Oh" from Mrs. Hudson broke his concentration. Molly had finished her soliloquy, obviously coming to the conclusion that the gift in her hand was not for some random _girlfriend_ but for her. She blanched and had the decency to look contrite.

The old Molly had used the silence to accuse him (and rightfully so) of _"always saying such horrible things"_. Sherlock marveled at that. How she had managed to say anything at all after being exposed and torn to shreds blew him away. Not trusting his voice, he closed his eyes once more and shook his head. "Molly…" he breathed out disappointedly after a few seconds.

Blue eyes snapped open when he felt a small hand slide into his. "I am sorry. Forgive me," Molly whispered quietly. She made to pull apart before rethinking better, choosing to stand on her tip-toes to bring her closer to his face.

Before he could register what was happening, Sherlock felt the gentle pressure of her lips against his cheek. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock Holmes."

He sighed. _'Yes, Merry Christmas indeed.'_

* * *

**_AN: I hope I did the Christmas scene justice... I listened to a specific song over and over again to put me in the right frame of mind. Can you guess which one? (I left a big clue!)_**

**_It's really hard trying to capture well loved characters like Irene, so if you don't approve of how I wrote it, by all means let me know. _**

**_But please do it kindly, I tell you I had a rough few days. Don't make me cry! :)_**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: *Waves sheepishly* Hi everyone, I know it's been a long time! (A month! For shame!) I am usually good about posting frequently, but alas, real life got in the way. So after a lot of sucky problems and an EXTREME case of writer's block, I was able to move my butt and get this done. I hope you like it! :)**

****As always, I do not own Sherlock or the brilliant words that come out of his equally brilliant mouth. That belongs to Mofftiss. I play around with the dialogue to fit my purposes, so its not going to be exactly like it is on the show.**

_'Italics'= Inner thoughts_

* * *

Sherlock had finished analyzing his sample (well Molly's sample) while she busied herself with another. He appreciated these moments; moments that he could observe her, freely gaze at her, and admire her while she worked. Even before he "fell" into this world, Sherlock had enjoyed studying her and solving the mystery that was Molly Hooper. Despite her awkwardness and bouts of clumsiness, her movements while at work were anything but. She was elegant, graceful, efficient... and well positively lovely. He watched for a few more minutes; grateful that she was too enthralled in her work to notice, and pleased that no one else was around to watch him be 'creepy' (as John would say). It didn't matter; he didn't care.

At the moment, he chose to evaluate Molly's tendency to mutter while she worked. It didn't bother him much, in fact he found it rather charming. Perhaps it was because he did that himself and liked to believe that she had picked up that habit from him. In any case, it had been one of the things he associated with working in _their_ lab; it was familiar and it was comforting. The whirring of the centrifuge, the beeping of a computer in the distance, and the nonsensical murmurs of a genius at work. Words fell from Molly's mouth like a mantra—or a prayer to a deity that neither one believed in. A phrase repeated over and over; insignificant to everyone except the woman saying them.

Sherlock was a man obsessed; everything about this woman was fascinating! The way her nose scrunched up when she was displeased with her results, the soft gasp she emitted when she was pleased with her results (a gasp that had been featured in more fantasies than he cared to admit), and the endearing way she puckered her lips periodically. _'Hmm… wait, that's new!'_

Sherlock strolled to Molly's side to get a closer look. The movement of her lips coincided with the phrase she had been whispering for the past few hours. Intrigued, he leaned over to get a better listen to the words that had occupied this precious woman's mind.

"I OWE YOU... I OWE YOU... I OWE YOU..."

He felt a twinge in his gut. A sense of panic flooded his body, however he couldn't explain the rush of emotion._ 'What was so wrong about an inconspicuous phrase such as 'I owe you'? Aha! There's that twinge again!'_

Without realizing it he began to mutter the phrase as well, in tandem with Molly.

"I OWE YOU... I OWE YOU… I OWE YOU..." they both chanted together.

Letting curiosity get the better of him, he decided to break the monotony. "I OWE YOU... Molly, what did you mean "I owe you"? You were muttering it while you were working."

Clearly unaware that she had been saying that aloud, she recovered quickly. "Hmm? Oh that! Nothing. Mental note," she responded dismissively. Sherlock shrugged. If she didn't want to share, he wasn't going to beg.

He left the lab and made his way towards the canteen for a cup of swill they had the audacity to call coffee. He had made it halfway to his destination when the realization hit him like the proverbial 'ton of bricks.'

_"I owe you…"_

_"I.O.U…" _

**_"I owe you a fall, Sherlock Holmes!"_**

**James Moriarty.**

_'How could I be so stupid? The signs were all there!'_ Sherlock mentally chastised himself. He had been so busy with this ridiculous plan to impress Molly—to encourage her feelings for him—that he had stopped paying attention. He had stopped paying attention to what was right in front of him, and now Molly would have to suffer the consequences. True, he could not have predicted that she would be forced to reenact this unfortunate event, for if he had, he would have done anything to prevent it from ever taking place. But that's not how this worked, that much he knew.

* * *

Sherlock rushed back into the lab, finding Molly staring off into the distance. That, in itself, was not strange; she often entered her mind palace with little regard to those around her. However in this instance, something felt off. He had already become accustomed to the calculating look that graced her face frequently, but now there was something—an unnamable something— instead that made him feel very much unsettled.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock questioned softly. She blinked up at him, as if noticing him for the first time. The vulnerability that had clouded her eyes was gone in a flash, replaced by a look of guarded incredulity.

"Of course I am, I'm always 'okay'. Why wouldn't I be?" Molly retorted quickly before returning to her work on the microscope.

There was a time where he would have answered in a similar fashion; a time where he believed that answering truthfully and admitting that everything was not 'okay' was admitting to weakness. _'Oh how foolish I was!'_ he remembered sadly. In his own stubbornness he had refused to accept help and comfort from his friends. After all, this "_alone-is-what-protects-me"_ mentality had worked well for Mycroft, why wouldn't it work for him too?

Those were dark times filled with loneliness and doubt. The burden saddled on his shoulders was painful, but it had been a load he carried willingly in its entirety. Now Molly was doing the same, and it broke his heart.

Sherlock sighed, "Don't. Just don't. I know what that means—what it feels like—to say that you are fine when you clearly aren't." He looked over to Molly who continued to fiddle with the microscope.

"Sherlock," she said sternly, "please don't feel the need to make conversation. It's really not your area."

He cringed. _'How many times did I make her feel unimportant by saying those exact words?'_

He soldiered on; what he had to say was too important to let something like his hurt pride get in the way. "What I am trying to say is that, if there's anything I can do, anything you need—anything at all—you can have me…"

_'Please need me. Please let me help you Molly,'_ he beseeched silently.

Molly snapped her head in his direction in time to see his ears tinge pink. But before he could correct himself, she narrowed her eyes and considered his words. "Th—thank you," the foreign words slid out of her mouth slowly. "I will definitely keep that in mind."

It wasn't much in way of a promise, but it was enough to rekindle a little ember of hope that when the time arrived she would come to him for help.

* * *

It had been a grueling day, and Sherlock was more than relieved to be heading home. He had walked through the morgue to make sure everything was put away, locked up, and was just about to do the lab when a petite shadow caught his attention.

"You were right. I'm not okay," the familiar sweet voice rang through the empty room.

Sherlock felt an inexplicable surge of energy run through his body; a need—a desire—to protect the woman before him, to do anything in his power to fix it all… for her. "Tell me what's wrong," he said determinedly.

Molly emitted a shaky breath. "Sherlock, I think I'm going to die."

Whether it was the fear in her eyes, or the heft of her words, the confidence he had been lacking throughout this experience returned in full force. "What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything that you think I am—everything that _I_ think I am—would you still want to help me?" Her voice sounded so little, so fragile, it took everything within him to hold back from scooping her up into his arms.

Instead he reached for her hand and stroked his thumb over her knuckles. "What do you need?" he repeated in a firmer voice.

Relieved, Molly smiled and tenderly squeezed his hand. "You."

* * *

Once Molly had reviewed all her cases involving the vile man (much of which he remembered on his own), the two had spent most of the night—and early morning—coming up with a course of action. Molly laughed at him when he encouraged a contingency plan (_"In case he decides that 'your death' is not enough, and targets others…"_). Luckily she conceded.

Everything was set. She would meet with Moriarty up on Bart's roof, reveal her knowledge of the computer code he had planted at Baker Street, and twist his arm until he admitted defeat. In the worst case scenario—the scenario Sherlock **knew** would be the one to play out—Molly would be forced to jump to her death. Either way they were ready; Sherlock's first-hand knowledge would prove to be incredibly useful.

Throughout the planning, Sherlock had done his best to remain calm and professional. It wouldn't do to flutter around Molly like a mother hen—she had enough on her mind—so he had been strong and put aside his concerns. But in the minutes awaiting to hear from Moriarty, a crippling fear began to overwhelm him.

When he had met with Moriarty, he had been worried. Worried that he had underestimated his enemy, and he had worried that his actions wouldn't be enough to save himself. He dealt with it stoically of course, because despite everything, he had asked Molly Hooper for her help. And Molly Hooper had never let him down.

Now that he sat across from Molly, their roles reversed, he couldn't help but feel like he hadn't done enough. Other than convincing her to accept his offer to go in her place (earning him a _"Sherlock, don't be stupid. It has to be me."_), he had exhausted all his ideas on how to avoid this whole situation. It fell on him to keep her safe, and he had failed quite spectacularly. _'You can never do enough to protect the one you love,'_ he mused.

"You're scared," Molly said plainly. Sherlock stared at her, no longer wishing to hide his emotions or affections. "I am," he stated just as plainly.

Confusion swept across her face. "Why are you scared? I'm the one meeting with Moriarty in a few minutes."

Sherlock huffed as he stood up. He made his way over to Molly, stopping right in front of her chair. His hands moved towards her face on their own accord before he realized what he was doing. Sherlock hesitated for a moment—_'In for a penny, in for a pound'—_and let his hands continue their course.

Molly's skin felt pleasantly warm underneath his hands. His thumbs brushed across the apples of her cheeks as he attempted to file away all the different sensations he was feeling. His eyes quickly flitted from her pouty lips to her soulful eyes; it was gratifying to see her staring back into his with such warmth. Sherlock leaned in and rested his forehead against hers, the tips of their noses touching, her breaths turning into pants in the process. "I'm scared _for _you. I love you Molly, surely you must know that-" he said in a husky voice (that surprised him as much as it did Molly).

Any response she may have offered was thwarted by the '_ping'_ of an incoming message on her mobile. She stepped back unsteadily—_'Obviously affected by what almost happened,'_ Sherlock hypothesized— and removed her phone from her pocket. Molly stiffened immediately.

"It's him. It's time."

* * *

**AN: There you go, I'm working on the next chapter (I think there will be two more) but I'm going to be honest and tell you all that I am struggling! Maybe I lost my inspiration, who knows? But to those of you who are following the story, I'll try my best to not let you down!**

**Any suggestions or comments you'd like to share with me will be greatly appreciated. :) **


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Hello my lovelies! So I do owe you all a little bit of an explanation... In past AN's I mentioned that things were a bit sucky for me, well I got really sick and had to have surgery. While recovering I naively thought I could get some writing down, but apparently when you are recovering you don't have much time do anything else but sleep, eat disgustingly soft food, and sleep again. Besides, who would want to read what my drug-addled mind came up with. (If my text messages are anything to go by, it would have been hilarious!) I re-read you reviews and PM's and felt encouraged to continue. Thanks for all the support, let's pick up where we left off. Hope you enjoy! :)**

_'Italics'= inner thoughts_

* * *

Pretending to be unaware of what was happening just a few feet above from where he stood was absolute torture for Sherlock. Sure he knew it was all staged, but there was always the possibility that something could go wrong. Were the calculations correct? Would Molly remember to push off from the side of the building, rather than jumping straight down? Would the members of the homeless network do their part? And what would happen when she landed? Contrary to many of the theories about his 'suicide', Sherlock had not walked away completely unscathed. Would Molly survive? And if she did, was she prepared for what she would have to do next?

As the questions throbbed inside his head—consequently giving him a headache—he couldn't help but wonder if this is what Molly had felt all those years ago. Sherlock didn't like to think back on that time in his life, however there was one memory he took solace in revisiting every once and awhile… the night he had come to the lab and asked Molly for her help.

**_Three and a half years (and another lifetime) ago…_**

"So-so this is the story that you're gonna publish. The big conclusion of it all… Moriarty's an actor?" John asked Kitty Riley, shaking his head in disbelief. A handcuffed Sherlock and John had broken into the reporter's flat just moments before, and were now face to face with the master criminal himself.

Sherlock heard John and Kitty discussing the 'proof' that would support her story. _'Whatever,'_ he thought condescendingly. It didn't matter what 'proof' she had; people would buy it. No, he was much more interested in Moriarty who was doing a spectacular job of feigning innocence. Standing in this flat sobbing into his hands, Moriarty was looking like a goddamn saint.

"Just tell them. Just tell them! Tell him! It's all over now," Moriarty/Richard Brook cried pleadingly. Sherlock smiled at the irony of the situation before taking a step towards him.

"NO!" Jim shouts violently, his hands come up in a defense stance. "Don't you touch me! Don't you lay a finger on me!"

The look of fear in Jim's eyes was enough to set him off. _'Acting like I am the one to be feared? What the fuck is that?'_ The man who took pleasure in strapping bombs on civilians, was now cowering in a corner. "Stop it! Stop it NOW!" Sherlock roared, slightly upset that he had let Jim's tactics affect him in such a way.

Not a second later, Jim took off and effectively made his escape. _'There's no point in chasing after him. He'll have back up,'_ which is exactly what he tells John. They leave the flat—after exchanging some rather heated words with Kitty—and make their way to the street.

Sherlock is replaying the entire fucked up little performance they just witnessed, while answering John's asinine questions half-heartedly. "…he's been sowing doubt into people's minds for the last twenty-four hours. There's only one thing he needs to do to complete his game, and that's to…"

And then it hits him, what the end plan is going to be, and it sends a chill through his body that seeps deep into his bones.

"Sherlock—what? Can I help?" John asks hesitantly.

"No… on my own."

He needed to get out of there. He couldn't let John see how scared he was, because that's exactly what he was. Scared; terrified if he was being honest with himself._ 'Like a child,'_ a voice sounding suspiciously like Mycroft supplied.

Scouring the city like a madman, he was more than a little surprised that he ended up in front of his _home away from home…_ St. Bart's. More importantly he ended up in front of Molly Hooper.

"You're wrong you know." Sherlock had whispered into the dark room, taking a small pleasure in startling the pathologist. "You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you." He hoped that Molly would see him, like she had before, and see that he was sincere. Sincere and humbled; humbled knowing that despite all his faults and attempts to push everyone away, Molly had remained the singular constant in his life.

With large doe eyes that were glossy with unshed tears, she gave him a determined look he didn't think she was capable of. "What do you need?" She asked her voice unwavering, and even after he had warned her that he was a lie—his prowess nothing more than an illusion—she asked again, fiercely. "What do you need?"

The panic that had riled his soul began to calm, simply by being in Molly's presence. Sherlock answered her question, "You." He surprised himself once again when he realized just _how_ true that was.

In all honesty, he hadn't needed her to carry out his plan. Not really. Mycroft had more than enough resources within his reach to help him with this deception. Between the two Holmes brothers, every eventuality was planned for; a no-rock-left-unturned sort of thing. However, that had done nothing to reassure him.

That's where Molly had come in. He needed her. He had needed her strength, her warmth, and—though he would deny it until his dying breath—he had needed her unconditional love.

* * *

It all happened so quickly. Sherlock took his place in front of the window just in time to hear the bloodcurdling yell coming from John Watson, "MOLLY!" A moment later a blur of black fell past his third story window and onto a lorry parked below. No matter what happened next, Sherlock knew that that image—Molly, her arms and feet flailing in the air as she tried to slow herself down before inevitably hitting the intended target—would haunt him forever.

Sherlock managed to keep down the bile that rose in his throat. He had the urge to run to her side and check on her—touch her to make sure that she was still alive. But he would fight it for now. He had a job to do, and he would not let Molly Hooper down.

Questions continued to plague him as he made the long trek from the lab to the morgue; where Molly's body would be delivered to him. Despite the agitations he was feeling, Sherlock's face betrayed nothing, which he was grateful for. He momentarily feared that he would lose his control when a sullen-faced Mike Stamford approached him. "Sherlock, I am s-so sorry!"

Unsure that his voice wouldn't crack, Sherlock 'hmmed' in confusion instead.

Mike came closer and gently pulled him in. "It's Molly Hooper. She's dead."

He didn't have to imagine being pained by those words. _'Molly Hooper. Dead… More fuel for my nightmares.'_ Yes it had been staged (something he had to continuously remind himself of), and he hadn't heard anything to raise suspicion that the plan had not worked—but it didn't make it any easier to hear that the woman he loved was dead.

"Look Sherlock, I know you two were close and I know how you feel—felt—about her. If you need to take some time-"

"Mike, I need to be the one to do her autopsy," he said determinedly, if a little cold.

Mike removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly thinking of a way to deny his request gently. _'All of this will be pointless if I can't convince him to let me do this,'_ he thought.

"She, Molly, wouldn't want anyone to look at her—like that. Please Mike, please. I—I just really—it has to be me. Please." Sherlock often said that he never begged (_"Begging should only be used as a last resort, lest you reveal your weaknesses"_ he had once said_)_, but on this occasion he was begging earnestly.

When a few renegade tears fell from Mike's eyes, Sherlock knew he had won. Hollow though it may be, he would count it as a victory nonetheless.

* * *

A few minutes later, Sherlock found himself standing in the middle of the morgue awaiting Molly's body. The sound of all too familiar heels could be heard click-clacking down the hall. He let the hope swell in his chest, _'Had Molly literally walked away from all this?'_

He was immediately disappointed when a Human Resources representative entered, instead of the beautiful petite woman he had expected.

"Ah! Sherlock, right? I'm sure you've heard what happened to the 'fake detective' by now, and I assume you will be doing the autopsy?" The woman, Natalie according to her name tag, began barreling through questions quickly. "I'm going to need a favor, and I hear that you are just the person to do it. When her body arrives, the first thing I need you to do is run a-" she paused to look at her notes "-toxicology screen to test for drugs in her system."

Sherlock wasn't an idiot, he knew it was standard procedure, but as to why an HR rep would concern themselves with the results of an autopsy was disconcerting. The confusion must have been evident on his face.

"Well if we can prove that Molly Hooper was on drugs, the hospital won't be liable for her death… Really who jumps off a building? Didn't she know how much paperwork we'll have to complete because of her? Hmm, well she did have a reputation of being rude so- I guess I shouldn't be too surprised, right?" Natalie giggled, hoping to crack a smile on the handsome man's face.

Sherlock felt his blood boil. "Get. Out." He bit out harshly, using his deep voice and impressive height to intimidate the insensitive office worker. She retreated back towards the exit hastily, choosing (wisely) to get out from under the man's icy glare.

"Sorry I didn't know—" Natalie uttered by way of explanation, "—I didn't mean to—um, just sorry. If you could send the report up when you're done, I would really appreciate it."

Though his body was still vibrating with anger, he rested his forehead against the wall of refrigerated lockers in an attempt to collect himself. He could already hear the double doors swinging open at the end of the corridor, and a gurney being wheeled in towards the morgue. The gurney that carried Molly Hooper's body.

_'Stop it! Now is not the time to get sentimental!'_

Some members of the hospital staff escorted a blanketed body into the room. _'Trauma doctors, must have been the first to arrive at the scene. Shit! They must have tried to resuscitate her,'_ he deduced. Normally, one _would_ want emergency responders to revive the victim. But this was not a normal case. And when you try to revive someone who isn't dead, ironically, it may very well result in death.

He hesitantly walked up to the gurney and peeled back the white sheet that was draped over the body. Patches of crimson had already soaked through the cloth, which made him feel slightly queasy. It wasn't the blood that disconcerted him—no he was definitely used to that—it was seeing blood covering someone you care for (someone you love). It felt wrong.

After pushing the others out the door, he went about trying to wake up Molly and assess the damage. If the hospital workers had tried to bring her back, then things would become a bit more complicated. But thanks to the fast-working mind of Sherlock Holmes he had gathered—stolen—the necessary equipment to make sure Molly would survive. She had to.

* * *

Completely drained by the day's events, Sherlock entered his flat and made his way directly to the bedroom. It had taken longer to revive Molly than he had anticipated, and the fear of being caught—as well as the fear for her life—had brought on the biggest headache of his life.

He flopped onto his bed, opting to not delay sleep further by changing into fresh pajamas. As he brought his hands up to rest underneath his cheek, he felt the grime that sullied them. '_No, not grime. Blood. Molly's blood,'_ he reflected.

Molly had fared much better than he had when he jumped from Bart's roof, however trying to keep her still as he checked her vitals had been challenging. Within minutes of waking up she had shed her bloodied clothes, changed into fresh ones, and attempted to hobble out of the hospital unaided. There was a lot to be done, and she was eager to get started.

"Please don't do this Molly," Sherlock begged futilely from the corner of the room. "Don't go. We'll figure something out… together." Perhaps it was a bit hypocritical of him to suggest such a thing, after all he had taken the task of hunting down Moriarty's clan on his own. But this was Molly; he couldn't just let her leave alone.

Molly paused at the door, seemingly considering his offer. She turned and gifted Sherlock a soft smile. "It's too late, the plan is already in motion. Besides," she said as she walked towards him, "I need you here to keep an eye on things for me. Visit Mrs. Hudson, She doesn't have much family and she'll enjoy the company. Make sure you help Lestrade with his cases, set him on the right track; it wouldn't do to lose the only valuable detective at NSY. And…" she sobbed before getting the rest of her sentence past her lips.

Sherlock could see the tears form in her eyes. "John?" he offered. Molly nodded in agreement and sniffled, "John."

Closing the distance between them, Sherlock wrapped Molly into his arms. "Of course I'll do all that… I'd do anything for you, you know that right?" He didn't get an answer, but he did feel her arms squeeze around his waist. She took a step back and released her grip, moving her hands to cup his face. He closed his eyes and savored her gentle touch.

"I'll see you soon, Sherlock Holmes. Please... don't forget me."

When he reopened his eyes, she was gone.

* * *

**AN2: So was it any good? I think I need about two more chapters to finish it, hopefully nothing else comes up and distracts me. As always let me know what you think, and feel free to offer suggestions! I need them! :)**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Thank you so much for all your kind words and support! You guys are amazing, truly! Before we begin, I want to check in and make sure you all are clear about the premise. Just in case: Sherlock screws up big time and hurts Molly, gets thrown into an AU where he is the "mousy pathologist" but he still retains memories of his life as consulting detective. (I know it's out there, but you've stuck with it this long, its too late to back out now!) If something remains unclear, especially the jumps between Sherlock's old life and new life, let me know.**

_'Italics'- inner thoughts_

****Trigger Warnings- vague mentions of suicide****

* * *

Five days… Five days since the supposed death of Molly Hooper, and already London felt different. The once vibrant city was suddenly lackluster. And in a strange act of defiance, the typically dreary weather was replaced with clear skies and sunshine. To Sherlock Holmes, it was hateful.

Friends, families, and lovers took to the streets, all enjoying the warmth that radiated from above. It was a mockery of the sadness—heaviness—he was feeling. Refusing to witness such merriment around him, Sherlock avoided public transportation, opting for the privacy that only a cab could provide.

Burying Molly (or rather, a casket containing the remains of an unclaimed Jane Doe), had been far more difficult than he had anticipated. Beforehand he had reminded himself that it was all a ruse, however he had not been prepared to see the reactions of those closest to him. Of course he expected being somehow affected; he loved Molly, how could he not? But to see Mrs. Hudson weeping like that… and a gruff man like Lestrade trying to keep his emotions in check? It was unbearable. He didn't even attempt to sneak a look at John; for if he did, John would completely undo him.

As the cab made its way from the cemetery to his flat, Sherlock had time to contemplate the actions of all the _ordinary _people (_ordinary_ in terms of people outside of his tiny circle of loved ones) going about their boring routines. Were they not aware of what they had lost? That one of the greatest minds—no, one of the greatest people he had the privilege of knowing—was dead to the world? Did they not know that this brave woman sacrificed so much so that they could continue living their mind-numbing lives? Did they even care that everything that was said about her was a lie? _'No,'_ he thought bitterly. _'They only care if the story is juicy enough for the front pages of the tabloids.'_

* * *

The sobriety of the day allowed him to revisit his own memories of his "death" and consequent mission. He recalled being anxious (excited) to begin his one-man man-hunt. After he had been nursed back to health by Molly Hooper, he gathered his few belongings, packed up, and left the pathologist's flat in the early morning hours. He hadn't said goodbye; knowing that by not doing so he was playing into some kind of sentimental cliché—the "hero" silently walking away into the sunset. In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't even said thank you. Sherlock grimaced; he had been a coward then. And completely selfish.

At the time, all he could think about was what **_he_** had just given up. The gravity of what he had just done; what he was going to do, and the enormity of the task that lay ahead. If he was completely honest with himself, he hadn't even considered the mess he had left behind. More specifically, the mess he had left behind for _Molly_ to clean up all on her own.

Now it was his turn. Molly had left the mess, and now he had to deal with it. She had asked him to, and he refused to let her down. There was too much at stake.

* * *

This was hard; harder than anything he had ever had to do. Pretending to be bereft. Keeping such a huge secret. Watching as the others—those he considered family—crumble apart. Just a few words was all he had to say, and he could spare them the heartache. He wouldn't—couldn't—reveal anything just yet; he wouldn't jeopardize anyone's safety. But the sooner this ordeal was over (and he could return to his regular life where **_he_** is the consulting detective), the better for his mental stability.

A few days after the funeral, Sherlock had been surprised with a visit from Greg Lestrade. The weary man walked into the morgue, and uncharacteristically sat himself down at the bench.

"I feel like I owe you an apology Sherlock," the detective somberly stated.

"An apology?" Sherlock asked. _'What could the man possibly have to apologize for?'_

It was no secret that Greg had fallen on some hard times. When the papers began to claim that the consulting detective was a fraud—and that she had orchestrated many of the crimes she had been applauded for solving—the eyes of the powers that be at the NSY had all turned on DI Lestrade.

Suddenly his years of hard work, loyalty, and quick turnover rate meant nothing. He had collaborated with the disgraced detective and he had requested her help on several high profile cases; it was the opinion of his superiors that he was just as fake as the consulting detective herself.

Of course, it was all absurd. Anyone with just a bit of brain power could clearly see what the issue was. It wasn't that he had contracted work out of his department (many other detectives did that). No, they had issue with the fact that Greg Lestrade had been _friends_ with her. No doubt about it, this was strictly personal.

"Yeah, it's my fault that she… you know. I could have defended her—protected her—but I didn't. I'm no better than those who straight out accused her of being a phony. I know she meant a lot to you, and my apologizing won't bring her back, but I—" he uttered, letting the rest of his declaration hang in the air.

"I—um—it's not your fault, Greg. I think it was always going to end this way." When one was in need of comfort, they typically avoided Sherlock. But it this world, his "shy, eager-to-please" personality made him approachable; friendly even. (He couldn't count the number of times strangers approached him to share their tales of despair. He hated it. _'Was this how it had been for Molly?'_) Regardless, he would attempt to be there for the DI, and anyone else who was in the pursuit of consolation… Only because Molly had asked him to.

The two chatted for a little longer when the older man stood up. "Thanks for hearing me out mate, but that's not the only reason I came down here. I tried checking up on John, but he isn't too keen on talking to me—I guess he holds me responsible… In any case, I was hoping you could talk to him and see how he's doing?"

The gnawing feeling at the pit of Sherlock's stomach seemed to intensify with the mention of John's name. "I don't know if that's such a great idea—"

He felt a bit guilty, cowardly, for not agreeing right away. (Hadn't he promised that he would do that?) Before he could come up with a convincing reason to avoid John, Greg continued.

"I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, Sherlock, he isn't doing well. I am worried about him—about what he'll do to himself. I guess I figured that…" he paused briefly to collect himself. "I just thought that since you both cared her, it would be good for you two to support one another. Be there for each other. Promise me you'll at least think about it?" Greg asked sounding hopeful.

And for the second time in a span of a week, Sherlock made a promise he was hesitant to keep.

**~oOo~**

Visiting Mrs. Hudson had been taxing. She was sorrowful, of course, but more than that she was concerned. Concerned for herself, for John… and even Sherlock himself. Her sweet, mothering nature made it that much more difficult to continue the lie.

"I know you cared for her, dear. That much was obvious. But I think she cared for you as well… in her own way. She just wasn't always very good at expressing herself, you know?" Mrs. Hudson had offered, with a pitying glance and a squeeze of his hand.

The social call didn't last much longer after that. In truth, Sherlock hadn't planned on staying at all. He had hoped that he would get a quick glance at her, and John, gather enough information on their condition should Molly require some sort of report. But when the elderly woman had gathered him into her frail arms and swept him into her flat with the promise of biscuits and tea, he couldn't resist.

The trip hadn't been entirely unsuccessful. He learned about the going-ons of the neighborhood (_"Lots of new neighbors, so much noise, so much traffic!"_ she had complained), and more to the point, he had learned about John's faring.

"…Couldn't even return to the flat, it's so bad! John is staying with his sister for now, but I don't think that is wise. You know she has problems with _alcohol_," she whispered the last part. "He cared so much for Molly. Mrs. Turner always thought they would end up together, but I knew better. Oh that girl! Who knows what was going on in that funny head of hers?"

Finally finding his voice, Sherlock was able to calm the woman a bit. "Don't worry Mrs. Hudson, I'll go check on John. I'll let you know what I find."

With one last hug, and a kiss to the cheek, Sherlock made his way to the doctor's new lodgings.

**~oOo~**

What awaited Sherlock as he arrived to Harry Watson's flat was discouraging. He took in John's appearance, and understood the seriousness of the situation without having to ask, "How are you?" The unkempt beard, the greasy hair, and the smell of stale beer that emanated from him all painted the perfect picture of a man who had given up on life.

"Sherlock? Come in," the doctor said as he walked away from the front door to reclaim his seat in the poorly lit sitting room. Sherlock followed, trying to gather the strength necessary to keep from blurting out the truth about Molly.

"How are you doing?" John asked politely, if a bit distractedly.

He was taken back, not really anticipating exchanges in pleasantries. "Good—er I mean, as good as can be expected, I suppose. And you?"

John laughed bitterly, "Me? I'm just fine, as you can see… Now you can share your observations to whomever sent you. Was it Mrs. Hudson? I bet it was."

"Well, she's worried about you. So is Lestrade." Sherlock didn't miss the clench of John's jaw at the mention of the Detective Inspector's name. "Of course, I wanted to check on you as well. We all cared for Molly too."

"But it was more than that, wasn't it? I didn't just care for her… I **_loved_** her!"

_That,_ Sherlock had not expected. The shock must have shown on his face because John was quick to explain himself. He chuckled sadly, "Relax mate… I only meant that I loved her in a brotherly way—the way I wish I loved my sister. It was my job to keep Molly safe—to protect her—and I failed."

Scotch spilled on the table as he served himself another glass. It didn't appear that he had any interest in drinking it, but rather it gave him something to do—a monotonous action to keep him busy. The amber liquid held his attention for a moment longer before he spoke up again. "She saved me, you know?"

"On a case?" Sherlock asked, confused by the sudden change in topic.

"No, when I met her. I had just returned from Afghanistan, and I was… lost, for lack of a better word. I was alone, and she gave my life purpose again. I owe her so much," John softly replied. "I was on the phone with her when she… did it. Did you know?"

Sherlock shook his head and remained silent, encouraging John to continue. "She sent me away; she was going to meet with Moriarty and she sent me away by orchestrating some fake emergency! When I was on my way back, she called. She sounded strange."

"How so?"

"She told me that she invented Moriarty—that the newspapers were right all along… That she was a fake. In fact, she told me to tell you, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson that she was a fake. But you don't believe that, do you? That she was a fake?"

Sherlock shook his head again, vehemently this time. "No. I believe in Molly Hooper."

"I know you do, Sherlock." John's hardened face gave way to a watery smile. "You loved her too."

"Yes, I do," he said plainly no longer wishing to deny it. (Whether he meant "Old life/pathologist Molly Hooper" or "New life/consulting detective Molly Hooper" it didn't make much of a difference anymore.)

The two men sat sullenly for the next hour contemplating the different forms of love they shared for the same extraordinary woman. When Sherlock made a move to leave, John's broken voice stopped him.

"Um Sherlock? Thank you for coming today, it means a lot to me… But can I ask you for a favor?" John stood and walked over to a desk that sat in the corner. After a few moments of fumbling through the drawers, he pulled something out and held it out to Sherlock. In his shaky hand was his old service revolver.

"Can you take this away? I don't think it's safe here… with me."

Without demanding an explanation (because really there could only be one reason he'd part with his gun), he took the weapon from the former soldier and made his way towards the door. "John, if there's anything—"

"I know. You'll be the first one I call."

**~oOo~**

Exhaustion hit Sherlock with the force of a freight train. Mentally, physically… _emotionally_… you name it, he felt it. It was overwhelming to feel so much at one time, however despite his attempts—and heaven knows he tried—to shut it all down and delete the past few days, he couldn't. Maybe it was because he felt it was his duty? As part of the promise he had made to Molly, he was obliged to follow through and endure the pain. Perhaps this was his penance for all the horrible things he had said and done in his past life? Who knows.

Nevertheless, he internalized it all and did the only thing that was in his power to do in the moment… he cried like a child. For several hours, sobs wracked throughout his entire body as he cried for the lies he told, for the loneliness he felt, and for the fear of losing Molly for real this time.

Molly had unknowingly—or knowingly—placed a tremendous burden on his shoulders, and the weight was unbearable. Sherlock had always fancied himself a strong man (the many enemies he had lain to waste could attest to that, had they lived). Oh, how foolish he had been. Sentiment had always been something he (and Mycroft) had scoffed at; easy to fake, and easy to take advantage of. But this was something different. This need to care for other was eating him from the inside-out… ailing him like a malignant tumor in possession of his body. _'Why would anyone willingly chose to feel like this? To take on the problems of others as their own._' Caught up in his grief, one name popped up in answer to his own question… _'Molly Hooper would.'_

Before sleep overtook him completely, he had one final thought… _'Molly Hooper is stronger than I ever gave her credit for.'_

**~oOo~**

He had been asleep for approximately three hours, according to Sherlock's groggy estimation, when he felt the mattress dip behind him.

"Shh… it's just me," he heard a familiar sweet voice whisper. He felt his pulse speed up and gave into the need to confirm that the woman who held his heart was truly there. Sherlock turned to his side, coming face to face with the cute button nose that belonged to none other than Molly Hooper.

Sherlock smiled sleepily. "Molly, how long—"

The tiny woman hastily interrupted him. "Just for tonight. I'll be leaving the country soon, and I just had to come…" Molly didn't finish her explanation, hoping that he understood that she couldn't leave without seeing him again.

Luckily for her, Sherlock did. They continued to lay side by side, quietly committing the other's face to memory. No words needed to be exchanged. The intimacy of the moment struck him— _'has she always been this beautiful?'_

"Sherlock? I know you've already done so much for me, but can I ask you for one more thing?" Her voice sounded so small—so delicate—that he couldn't deny her anything even if he wanted to.

"You know you can ask me anything."

"Do you think—can you—" she huffed once, frustrated by the inability of spit out her words. "Just hold me. Please?"

Sherlock's heart swelled as he pulled her towards him, her head effectively landing on his chest. He wrapped his arms around her small frame and was rewarded by her contented sigh. It didn't matter that only hours before he had cursed Molly for entrusting him with her secrets and her life. All the pain and hurt was immediately nullified when he laid with Molly hidden away in the safety of his bedroom.

And though he was aware that he would have to relinquish his hold in a few hours, now that he had gotten a taste of this bliss, he'd be damned if he wouldn't chase after it again.

* * *

**AN: I wrote myself into a corner but I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I estimate about one more chapter...**

**Thoughts? Is the story hard to follow? Any suggestions?- Leave me a message! :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Okay so it's been 20 years since I last updated? You're probably gonna have to go back and re-read, huh? Well I am truly sorry... You have all been wonderful, and supportive, and I can't tell you what that means to me. **

**No beta, mistakes are mine, and I do not own Sherlock... yada, yada, yada. **

**I am nervous about this one, it sat on my computer for awhile before I decided to bite the bullet and post it. I hope you enjoy! :)**

_**Italics= inner thoughts**_

* * *

Shifting between moments of sleep and lucidity, Sherlock Holmes recalled the events that transpired the night before. A late night visit from Molly Hooper, loving embraces throughout the night, and hushed conversations (about anything and everything) into the early hours of the morning was hands down one of the best nights of his life.

Nothing happened—'_well… not __**nothing**__,'_ Sherlock thought smugly as he tried to move his sore body—but being in the presence of Molly was enough to provide comfort, the likes of which he had never felt before. Despite what many people thought, Sherlock had had sex before. But this? This was entirely new… this was _intimacy_, and for the first time ever he understood what the "big deal" was.

Thoughts of _his _Molly motivated him to start moving. His arms, too heavy from sleep, stretched out in search of his bed companion. She wasn't there. _'Perhaps she left already,'_ he wondered dejectedly.

It didn't take long for his superior mind to notice something was wrong. The queen sized bed he had shared with Molly the night before couldn't be larger than a single now. The premium quality sheets that he had grown accustomed to, had somehow been replaced with generics, low thread count. None of this seemed familiar.

That's when he knew it; he wasn't at Molly's flat nor was he at Baker Street… _'So where the hell am I?'_

Sherlock opened his eyes, however was only able to keep them as such for fractions of a second. That was enough time to confirm the fact that he was not in his (or Molly's rather) cheerfully bright yellow bedroom, but rather in an all-white holding room of some sort.

In a desperate fit of panic Sherlock tried to bolt up from his laying position, but couldn't. He could feel restraints and a number of wires crossing over his body, but most distressing of all, he felt something—_an oxygen mask?_—obstructing his breathing.

The sound of shrill alarms filled the room accompanied by the hustle of several pairs of feet. Though the conversations were indistinct, Sherlock was able to recognize the beeps of monitors and medical jargon being whispered by people—_doctors?_—in the room.

_'So I am in a hospital,'_ Sherlock quietly deduced to himself, while someone removed his cannula.

As the excitement wore down, people and machines began exiting the room, however Sherlock sensed movement in the room; someone had stayed behind. Unable to retain a steady gaze, he was grateful his deduction skills seemed to be unaffected. A figure smoothly approached his bed, _'Male, six feet tall (No! Taller), flat feet, even gait…'_

"Ah Sherlock! So nice of you to join us again."

That voice. He could identify it anywhere; it was one of the voices in his subconscious. The voice that constantly reminded him about the pitfalls of sentiment, and much to Sherlock's chagrin, it was the voice that took pleasure in calling him out when he had been stupid.

_'Mycroft?'_

* * *

"I don't understand," Sherlock murmured, more to himself than anyone else in the room.

Had it been any other occasion, hearing the Great Sherlock Holmes admit that he '_didn't understand'_ something would be cause for celebration. His friends would freely admit that the git deserved to be knocked down a few pegs, but then again his friends wouldn't wish for this at all. The lost look on Sherlock's face earned sincere pitying looks and deep sympathies from the three visitors standing at his bedside.

"I could show you your medical chart again if you—" John Watson offered from the foot of his bed.

Grunting as he adjusted the bed to a sitting position, Sherlock waved him off distractedly. "No, I—um—no. Once was enough—"

"Don't be alarmed Sherlock. You've had a traumatic brain injury; it is perfectly acceptable for you to be…_confused_ for a few days," Mycroft uncharacteristically reassured him.

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm not _alarmed_ Mycroft, as you so delicately put it. I just don't have any memory of what happened at the moment!" He ran his hands through his hair, wincing when he brushed against a stitched up wound on the back of his head. Their concern only aggravated him. Clearly they believed him to be weak; no that wouldn't do at all. Unfortunately, he did need answers. "What _did_ happen?"

"Short version? You got ambushed." Greg Lestrade stood from his seat at the edge of the room so that Sherlock could see him better. At the perplexed look on the consulting detective's face, the DI continued. "From what were we able to gather from witnesses, you were walking back to Baker Street, when the assailant snuck up from behind a bin and struck you—"

"What? No! There is no way someone could have just '_snuck up'_!" Sherlock interrupted, derision covering his raspy voice.

"Well according to **_your_** homeless network," Lestrade lectured while taking a seat on Sherlock's bed, "you were seen leaving Bart's at 10:30 am, walking "aimlessly through traffic"—their words, not mine!—for about an hour. Thirty minutes after that, you were attacked by a heavy set man, mid to late 30's. Lucky for you one of your people were close by, they saw what happened and called it in. I was called to the scene shortly after and got some great leads. We were able to apprehend the assailant, who as it turns out, was hired to "take you out" by the wife of a man you convicted. I won't bore you with the details, but it was a lot of stupid planning and a lot of anger—mostly directed at you."

"Impressive, Detective Inspector, very impressive. I am surprised that you accomplished so much without my help. Tell me, why didn't you come to me?" Sherlock's three friends, well two friends and Mycroft, shared worried looks with each other.

John cleared his throat and cautiously approached his friend. "Well you—err—weren't really available were you, mate?"

Using his most diplomatic—_placating_—voice, Mycroft clarified, "Sherlock you've been in and out of consciousness for the past six days. In fact, this isn't the first time we've had this conversation. It is, however, the first time you've woken up without asking for Molly Hooper."

Sherlock blanched. "Molly?" he asked in a pained whisper.

Tension filled the room; both John and Greg held their breath, grateful that Mycroft had been the one to bring it up. After all, how does one address the distressed cries for _"Molly"_ and _"My Molly"_ with Mr._ 'Married-to-my-work'_?

It had been heartbreaking to see and hear. Sherlock, the most private person in the room (aside from Mycroft, of course), would be mortified if he knew the number of times he pleaded for the pathologist. Following one particular episode, Sherlock had sobbed—_sobbed!_—that he _"needed to tell her before it was too late.'_

The question of _what_ was so important was never divulged, so the men decided it was best not to call in the woman until Sherlock was in his right mind. It didn't, however, mean that they wouldn't discuss it at length.

The brothers continued to stare at each other. The eldest Holmes trying his best to deduce the reason behind the sentimental babbles, while the youngest did everything in his power to keep it hidden. Moments passed before Mycroft quirked his eyebrow, effectively ending the stand-off in a draw.

Frustrated with these new revelations (and slightly embarrassed), Sherlock huffed, slid down his bed, and turned to face the wall—in a true Sherlockian sulk.

Mycroft made to stand up. "I think that's enough for today. Sherlock, I am glad to see that you are more…_yourself._ Gentlemen, if you will excuse me." With one final nod of the head, he quit the room.

Greg and John exchanged glances, unsure of what to do next. "Yeah, I should probably get back to the Yard. Lots of paperwork waiting for me," Greg spoke up. "Sherlock?" When the DI didn't receive a response, he turned to John. "Keep me posted, yeah?" John nodded.

Believing his friend to be in his mind palace, or more likely pouting—_seriously, men with egos the size of Sherlock's would not enjoy the fact that they were 'caught off guard'_—the good Doctor Watson decided to leave his friend in peace… for now.

Because no question about it, Sherlock Holmes had a lot of explaining to do.

* * *

**AN2: ****This chapter was extremely frustrating for me, and I'm not entirely satisfied with it. So if you think it is rubbish, tell me (kindly please!) and I'll work it out. **

**I'm having a hard time finishing the story, and I would abandon it, however my OCD will not allow me. So if you will indulge me, and maybe give me ideas, I could knock this sucker out and take on less taxing fics.**

**I adore you, my fellow 'ship'-mates! :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: Hello my wonderful peeps! I had sometime off from work and put it to good use. (Plus it provided the perfect excuse to get out of helping with cooking Thanksgiving dinner. To the untrained eye, it looked like I was writing a paper... it was fanfic!) **

**Thank you for all the support and kind words! I get excited every time I get a notification that someone has favored/followed/ or reviewed. You guys are amazing. Hope you enjoy :)**

_'Italics'= inner thoughts _

* * *

Sherlock grunted as he pulled on the wires and tubes attached to his body. Perhaps it was a little immature to turn his back on his friends, but he just needed everyone to shut up and leave him alone… at least for a little while. He could read the questions on John and Greg's faces—and the smug look on Mycroft's as he believed he had figured things out. It was annoying. How was he supposed to explain himself, when he had no idea where to start?

He breathed a little easier when he heard Mycroft retreat. Since childhood, his brother had had the uncanny ability to read his emotions. No one, not even his parents nor his best friend John had been able to do so. Well, no one aside from Molly Hooper. She knew, she always knew; and much to Sherlock's frustration, Molly often knew what he was feeling before he knew it himself. She was definitely Mycroft's superior in that aspect. Sherlock grinned at that.

A few minutes later, he heard Lestrade say his goodbyes. He thought about making some jibe—_perhaps call him Gustav? Insult his detective skills?_—but reconsidered. The sooner everyone left, the better; he needed to think.

Behind him, Sherlock heard shuffling around. _'I guess John is staying…Great!'_ he thought sarcastically. Normally it wouldn't bother him to have John around. The man was his best friend, his blogger/assistant, and his unofficial physician; John was used to be around, and more specifically being ignored. However Sherlock knew that this silence was fleeting. Pretty soon John would start asking questions, and it would be unacceptable to not have the answers

* * *

It could not have been more than thirty minutes after the others had departed when John began to get restless. The rustling of papers, the scooting of a chair, the toe tapping/finger snapping combination, and the worst of all… the frequent cough that would not dislodge what must have been a small animal of some sort from the back of his throat; each sound was amplified in the stillness of the hospital room.

"For God's sake John, would you be quiet? I thought the point of being in recovery was to rest. How am I supposed to _'heal'_ with all this noise?" Sherlock snapped.

"Oh come off it! We both know you have no intention of resting." John walked towards the bed. It was time to have the _conversation_; both men hoping it wouldn't come to this.

"So… are we going to talk about it?" John asked tentatively.

Sherlock, who was still facing the wall, shrugged his shoulder. "Talk about what?"

Clearly, this wasn't going to be easy. Sherlock didn't like to talk about his emotions, which was obvious. But it wasn't like John enjoyed having these conversations either. Sometimes you had to charge through it.

John sighed. "Don't do that Sherlock, I'm trying to help you."

It might have been the pleading quality in his voice, but that was enough to make Sherlock peer over his shoulder and look at his friend. Any notions he may have had about being made fun of, dissipated with the emotion on John's face. Throughout this ordeal—whether it happened in reality or not—he had wished that he could talk to John about his feelings for Molly. Now the opportunity was here, and he didn't know where to start. In an effort to not 'give it all away' Sherlock chose to let John 'get the ball rolling' so to speak.

"Alright, what do you want to know?" The consulting detective turned to lie on his back and brought his hands to rest over his stomach. He hoped it wouldn't show, but his hands were excessively sweaty. An emotional man such as John Watson would be sure to ask uncomfortable questions—questions that Sherlock was hesitant to answer—but it was necessary if he wanted to get to the bottom of it all.

His best friend returned to his seat by his bedside. "Okay, question one: how did that thug get the jump on you?"

Sherlock couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief. Yes he wanted to figure all this out, and he did think better out loud, but he quickly realized in that moment he wasn't ready to talk about Molly just yet. But this, the case, he could talk about that—no problem!

"I don't know, you heard Gale. I must have been _distracted_. Next question."

The scowl on John face told him that perhaps that his answer was a bit 'not good'. He couldn't help it; sarcastic answers were usually the first to pop into his head in times of stress.

John scowl was replaced with a menacing smile. "Alright,_ next question_. What's going on with you and Molly Hooper?"

_'Damn!'_

* * *

After regaling John with the unpleasant details of his last coherent conversation with Molly—**_before_** the attack-turned-to-a-portal-alternate-universe-coma thingy, of course—he waited for the sage advice his friend had to offer.

"Yeah that wasn't good, Sherlock. Not good at all… I mean—Christ!—you know how she feels about you? What you did was cruel."

Sherlock pouted. "I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"No, maybe not on purpose. But what else was she supposed to think, huh?" John dropped his voice, in what Sherlock presumed was supposed to be an imitation of him. "'_Oh Molly, I need to drop everything you're doing and come with me to an extravagant party where you will be dressed in an extravagant gown. We will dance all night, I will lavish you with compliments… and touch you, and flirt with you… But don't get the wrong idea; this is not a date!'_"

"Well when you put it that way—"

"—and then, what do you do?!" John interrupted Sherlock's admit of defeat. "You make her feel stupid for making the wrong assumption… Assumptions that you perpetrated, mind you!" Sensing that his rage was about to boil over, the doctor took a deep breath and tried another tactic. "Sherlock, she's trying to move on. Molly found someone, fell in love, promised to marry them, and consequently ended it for reasons unknown—though I have a pretty good guess as to why. It didn't work out with Tom, but that doesn't mean that she won't find someone else."

The thought of Molly moving on, finding a man deserving of her love, was painful. Sherlock squirmed in his bed, attempting to play off his discomfort. _'Of course she'll find someone else… I was foolish to think—'_

"But—and I can't believe that I am having this discussion with you—but if you have feelings for Molly then you need to tell her before it is too late. No, no—" John sputtered as Sherlock made a face of denial, "—you need to have an actual conversation with her. Not deduce her dates and scare them off, and certainly not lure her out under false pretenses of "a case" just so that you can spend some quality with her. Be a man! If you want to see her outside of the lab just ask."

The contemplative look on Sherlock's face was enough to convince John that his message had been well received. Now, whether or not he would do anything about it was still to be determined. John cleared his throat and began cautiously, "If you ask me—"

"Well I didn't," Sherlock mumbled under his breath.

Dr. Watson glared and continued, "—well in any case, I have known you long enough to know that you are feeling _something_. Take time and think about it, but seriously think about it—are you prepared to let Molly move on? Or are you willing to do what it takes to be the man Molly needs?"

John collected his belongings and made his way out. He looked back at his friend, who had already entered his mind palace, and smiled.

A quiet "thank you, John" reached John's ears as he opened the door.

"Don't thank me just yet, mate. I've texted Molly… She'll be here within the hour. Laters!"

There was no way of knowing what the future held for the consulting detective, but if it was half the happiness of what he shared with his Mary, then he wished him all the luck in the world.

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**AN2: I've gone back and re-read this fic and the reviews and noticed that I am entirely too critical of myself, especially when it comes to my writing. I mentioned my OCD-ness so that's a part of it, but it is also tough writing and publishing work where it is susceptible to harsh criticism. I've been fortunate that you lovely folks reading this have been kind and enthusiastic about my story. If not for you guys, I'm pretty sure I would have abandoned this long ago. **

**I promise to keep writing (when time permits) until the story is finished. I kept saying that there were two chapters left, and that's a lie. The muse keeps taking me in different directions, I can't fight it.**

**Please tell me what you think of this chapter. Sherlolly will make an appearance in the next chapter... hopefully! ;)**

**Lots of love- AJ**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: Thank you for the incredible support! It warms my heart every time I get a new follower or a PM/review asking me to hurry up and post (in the nicest manner possible, of course!). Real life got in the way, so I've been writing this in my few moments of free time. I felt a little like a hypocrite, always asking other writers for faster updates to sate my Sherlolly needs. Well this is my contribution... I hope you enjoy it! :)**

**As always, I d****o not own Sherlock... that right belongs to ACD and Mofftiss. However the mistakes are mine!**

_'italics'= inner monologue; conversations with mind-palace people_

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The clock in the hospital room continued to tick away the minutes to Molly Hooper's arrival. By Sherlock's estimation, she would be another 30 minutes if she was coming from home, or—and he really hoped it wasn't the case—he could expect her in 10 minutes if she was coming from Bart's. Either way, he didn't have much time.

The idea of another confrontation with Molly was off putting. Of course, there was the possibility that they would talk, clear the air, and all would return to the norm. But he knew himself and whenever he was backed into a corner, he retaliated.

The first time around—**_before_** all this… happened—he had felt ill after exchanging harsh words with her. So much in fact, that he allowed himself to be distracted, becoming vulnerable to an attack. How would he handle all this, after acknowledging his new-found feelings?

Suddenly, trying to escape before they returned or possibly bribing the doctor to release him earlier than recommended, both seemed like agreeable options.

_'Perhaps I am making this much more complicated than it needs to be… After all, no one knows that my feelings have changed towards Molly. Maybe I don't even feel the same about her in this reality. Of course that's it! I only felt like because of excess adrenaline and firing neurons… It wasn't even this Molly- "pathologist Molly"- that I fell in lov—well that I felt something for. Yes that must be it… "Consulting detective Molly" was much more like me than her usual 'mousey' self.'_

Sherlock laid back in bed; the tension that had been tightly coiled inside of him slowly dissipated with the steady stream of breath that left his lips.

A sardonic cackle, that sounded a lot like John, interrupted his deep breathing. _"How much of narcissist can you be? You were attracted to the Molly that resembled you! Ha! I've always said you were entirely too enamored with yourself."_

Well, shit… there would be no living with "mind-palace John" now.

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It wasn't long before he heard the familiar footfalls of his favorite pathologist coming down the hall. He closed his eyes, in a last ditch effort to solidify the idea that he **was not** in love with Molly Hooper.

_"The __**man**__ doth protest too much, methinks…" _mind-palace Mycroft offered smugly.

"Dear lord… SHUT UP!"

Molly scoffed. "Sherlock Holmes, you have the horrible tendency of getting hurt when I'm supposed to be mad at you."

Sherlock opened his eyes only to see the ghost that had been haunting his—well coma, for lack of a better word—standing before him. Despite his attempts to convince himself that he felt nothing for the woman, the flutter in his stomach at the sight of her presence in the doorway told him otherwise.

"Well," he said in a pained breath as he sat up, "it's proved to be the quickest method to get back in your good graces. Did it work?"

Still not having made her way further into the room, Molly huffed. "That's yet to be decided." After a brief hesitation, she stepped in and moved to the chair by his bed. "You know, if you're so keen on remaining in my 'good graces' as you put it, you could try _not_ doing the thing that pisses me off in the first place. Much easier than getting maimed, really."

Sherlock fought the grin on his face. Clearly she was still upset, but she was talking to him… that had to be a good sign, right?

"Easier, yes… but when have you known me to do things the easy way?" This time he didn't fight it; he gave her his most boyish smile in his arsenal.

Molly's shoulders slightly relaxed as she flopped onto the chair. "No, I suppose you don't." Several minutes of comfortable silence passed. It was a common theme in their relationship; no need for conversation, the peace to contemplate a myriad of thoughts, but the comfort of knowing you weren't entirely alone. This phenomenon was unique to Molly. (Lestrade liked to talk aloud, John fidgeted, and Mrs. Hudson took his silence as an invitation to hoover the rugs.)

Sherlock was considering entering his mind palace when a frustrated sigh left Molly's lips. "Really Sherlock, you'll be the death of me one day. It's bad enough that I worry when you're out on a case… and now, walking home isn't safe for you as well. What the hell happened? John didn't elaborate much, only to say that there had been an accident and you were sent to the hospital."

"It sounds like you have the gist of the situation. I was walking home, there was an accident, and here we are… at the hospital." The second the words left his mouth, Sherlock regretted it. Hadn't he decided he would be kinder to Molly? Had this whole experience been for naught? Why was it that everything he said managed to 'piss her off' even more?

The glare he received from Molly was evidence enough that she shared the same sentiment. He cleared he throat and focused on the space right above Molly's head, "Ahem. Sorry… I was walking home and a low-level criminal hired by the wife of a man I testified against ambushed me. He 'snuck up' on me—_according to witnesses_—and hit the back of my head with some sort of weapon. Consequently, I was _incapacitated_ and brought to the hospital where I've been in and out of consciousness for the past six days."

Feeling confident in his response he returned his gaze to Molly. What he saw shocked him; fear mixed with rage contorted her features, while tears brimmed her eyes.

"Six days," she whispered angrily. "Six days, and I'm just hearing about this now?" She stood up quickly, the chair sliding forcibly across the room. "It's _comforting_ to know that in the amalgam of friends you have collected over time, I don't even warrant some sort of message that something had happened to you."

In his rush to stop her, he sat up far too fast for someone recovering from a head wound should. The situation was rapidly escalating; the moment getting away from him like a vehicle spinning out of control. The panic that engulfed him as she began to collect her things to leave sent him into a tachycardia episode. "Molly, wait—"

The beeping machine that indicated the dangerous increase in his heart-rate pulled Molly's attention back to him. He must have looked a fright because no sooner than she turned, the color drained from her face.

"Lie back, Sherlock. Christ! We need to get a doctor in here!" Before she could move away, he grabbed her wrist.

"You're—a—doctor…" he said haltingly, in between gasps for air.

"Don't joke, Sherlock!" Molly snapped. She made no effort to leave, but her eyes kept darting around the room looking for _something_ to help him.

"Molly, I'm—fine. Look at me, I'll be okay…" Sherlock almost chuckled. Here he was in the midst of a panic attack, and he (of all people) was attempting to console Molly. "Please—just stay," he pleaded.

She looked a little unsure, but remained by his side nonetheless. _'Just like many times before,'_ he thought.

A few minutes later, his breathing had returned to normal and his heart rate slowed down. He held unwaveringly onto her wrist, finding the rhythm of her pulse soothing. "Surely, you can't blame me for not notifying you. As I mentioned, I was unconscious for the majority of my stay here. Rather difficult to dial your number…"

Molly looked from his hand, that was wrapped around hers, up towards his face. She would eventually forgive him… they both knew that. But the longer they sat there, Sherlock realized that he no longer had the patience to wait for it; to wait for her forgiveness.

_'…not doing the thing that pisses me off…' _was what she said. Was it really as simple as that? Of course it was! He could be the person that made her happy, instead of angry; ensure that the tears she shed because of him, would only ever be happy tears.

Fierce determination warmed his chest as he figured out what he wanted—or more precisely, **_who_** he wanted. Sherlock Holmes would become a man worthy of Molly's love.

The small tug of her hand pulling away from his broke Sherlock from his scheming. Molly returned to her chair and sat back as far as possible; effectively putting some distance between them. It pained him a little, but he would allow it… for now.

He would earn her trust again.

Molly released a resigned laugh, shook her head, and wrapped her arms around her knees. "Oh Sherlock, what am I to do with you?"

He smiled at her and closed his eyes once again, savoring the moment. _'Oh Molly… You'll let me win your heart,'_ he mused before succumbing to sleep.

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**AN: Please let me know if there are glaring mistakes. I was determined to post today, and even though I read through it several times, the words started to blur towards the end.**

**Leave me a review, tell me what you think! (It may prompt to write the next chapter sooner, apparently I am not above manipulation) **

**Lots of love, my dears :)**


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